The Night of Fear
by Agatha Doyle
Summary: Seq. to 'The Man With the Twisted Mind'. Harriett has been abducted by the infamous Professor Moriarty. Now Watson and a very frail Holmes must follow a trail of cryptic clues across London in order to find her.
1. Prologue

**Note from Agatha: The fourth in my series of Harriett Winchester stories (And this is where the series really picks up. ;) ) Should point out before you read the rather sad prologue that I had always intended for this story to mark Watson's death, but it seems doubly appropriate now, as Edward Hardwicke - one of my favourite actors ever to play Watson, and in my favourite ever Sherlock Holmes series - recently passed away. R.I.P. Watson and Edward.**

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><p><strong>The Cedars, Near Colgate<strong>

**St. Leonard's Forest, Sussex **

**December, 1925**

'**A sad day for us all...'**

I feel that there is only one fitting way to begin this new tale of mine...

'_It is with a heavy heart that I take up my pen to write these the last words in which I shall ever record the singular gifts by which my friend Mr. Sherlock Holmes was distinguished.'_

Those were the exact words that my very dear friend, Dr. John Watson, once a hero of the Afghan War, in Her Majesty Queen Victoria's Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, used to begin his account of the apparent death of his friend and colleague Mr. Sherlock Holmes, now so many years ago. Though dear Watson's grief in the writing of those words was later to be happily lifted with Holmes's sudden return, I fear...No, I do not fear...Let us say that I _accept _that no such joyful occurrence shall come to me, and that I must bear and come through my mourning just as I have done three times before in my life upon losing someone that I loved so dearly. I have lit a candle in that dark bedroom window so as to attract the angels to his bedside, and carry his soul away in to the beautiful Here After...

Naturally, poor Anne [1] is devastated, and Margaret is doing all she can to comfort her mother (Though I believe Anne knew, just as I did six months ago, that Watson would not cling to this world for much longer after Holmes had left it. Holmes, after all, would be lost, even in the Here After, without his Boswell.) But now I must shake off the veil of mourning for a while, and start on my work! This tale, after all, is to be written in Watson's memory.

It was decided this morning that Little Johnny – something which I am sure he would prefer me to stop calling him, as he is far from little anymore– should be the first to sort through his father's papers (Being a solicitor, he was the best qualified.) Whilst he was going about this work in the library, however, Johnny suddenly stumbled across the key to a locked bureau that had apparently been lost for many years, but had in fact, it seemed, been hidden under a floorboard by Watson. The bureau was then opened, and found to contain what can only be described as a small private museum of Watson's life in Baker Street, all coated with a thick layer of dust that showed signs of being recently disturbed.

Amongst the collection were paperback copies of every single one of Watson's stories (though '_The Final Problem'_ was very noticeably absent;) Holmes's amber-stemmed pipe, which I knew he had specifically left to Watson upon his death; a tin of old newspaper cuttings all related to Holmes's cases (his original obituary dated the 4th May 1891 had rather amusingly been included;) Gladstone's collar; letters from both myself and Holmes which had been lovingly preserved in a silver casket; a photograph of myself, Watson, and Mrs. Hudson outside 221b, which I had not seen in years; the only photograph that Holmes had ever allowed to be taken of himself; and a leather-bound journal, fastened about with a length of rather familiar red velvet ribbon, its pages carefully protected from the dust with tissue paper. A recently written note tucked inside the journal's cover declared it to be for me, and I was stunned to find that it was Watson's account of that dreadful night nearly thirty-five years ago, when I was taken by the infamous Professor Moriarty.

I must say that, had it not been for the discovery of the journal, I should probably never have written of that night, for I spent much of it locked away in the company of the loathsome Moriarty, completely unaware of Holmes and Watson's great hunt across the city to find me. If the story had had to be told entirely from my own point of view, it should have contained very little, been quite difficult to understand, and would have left many questions unanswered. But thankfully for you, dear reader, I now have Watson's own notes to include, and you may hear of the events of that terrible Night of Fear, not just from my own perspective, but from the good doctor's too, and know of the extraordinary efforts that he and Holmes took to rescue me.

I can only hope that it is a fitting enough tribute to a kind and very brave man...

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><p>[1] You might notice that I've left Watson's first wife Mary out of my stories. That's just because it was easier to have Watson living with Holmes. Just so you know though, I'm not denying she existed (Have tried to keep my stories as much 'in canon' as possible.) Just pretend that she died before <em>'The Final Problem,' <em>not after.


	2. Chapter 1

If I remember correctly, I had completed my last tale at the exact moment when Moriarty's men had succeeded in snatching me from Baker Street in a small carriage, despite Holmes and Watson's fierce attempts to stop them. I will continue, then, shortly after the carriage had made its escaped from Baker Street, and some time before it arrived at its peculiar destination...

**23****rd**** April 1891 **

**9:00pm**

We had been rattling over cobbles for what seemed like hours, but the chiming of a passing church bell told me that only a mere hour had passed since I had been thrust in to the dark, damp corner of the carriage. I should really have been attempting to gauge my surroundings, taking note of the streets, deducing just where the hired brutes were taking me, but I had withdrawn completely in to myself, and seemed unable to stir myself in to action. I felt cold and numb. It was not only the terror of my situation that had reduced me to this state, however. I had been in frightening situations before, and I knew how to keep calm and remain strong in times of danger. I _knew_, but I had not acted on that knowledge this time. Instead, I had panicked and cried and screamed for help.

And _that _was why I was currently lying stiff and cold on the damp floor of the carriage, my face set in stone, and steadfastly ignoring my environment. I was angry. Angry with how weak and helpless I had been at the hands of a bunch of crude Neanderthals and their cowardly employer, who did not even have the grace to show himself to me! Worse still, the person whom I had cried so desperately for in my moment of panic was _Holmes_. I had called him as pleadingly as a lost little girl might call for her father, when he himself had nothing but cold indifference for me. I curled up on the dirty floor of the carriage, humiliated, burying my face in to the now stained cotton and velvet of my dress. Sherlock Holmes was not my father. I had no father. I had to care for myself.

Suddenly, the carriage came to a clattering stop, jolting me where I lay, and lightly throwing my weight against the peeling wooden wall. The slight bump brought me out of my dark musings at last, and I sat up in order to listen to the sounds outside the carriage. Kidnapped or no, I would _not_ be made helpless! Though I could hear their tramping footsteps circling around the carriage, the men were being very careful not to say a word to each other, and I guessed that they had been warned by their employer not to give me the smallest opportunity to deduce where I was being taken. I had some information, however. We had been travelling for an hour at a hasty speed, keeping mostly to a long, straight road, and had at one point passed a church (I remembered the sound of the bell.) Though my knowledge of London was limited, I had learned enough of it in my four weeks at Baker Street to know that the church we had passed could only have been St. Anne's on Longford Street, and we were currently sitting in the little by-street just next to it, known as Osnaburgh Street. It seemed that my kidnappers had paused to either water their horses or hide briefly out of fear of pursuit, and I realised that now could be my only chance for escape.

I crawled towards the doors of the carriage, and examined them, closely in the darkness. They were not particularly sturdy, and rattled a good deal on their hinges, but I could just about see through the chinks that they were fastened on the outside with thick iron chains. These, however, had been hastily looped through the handles, and were not held in place with any sort of weight or padlock. There was also a latch, but it was a childish sort of thing, the sort that can easily be lifted from the other side with the use of a carefully placed, slim object...Like a hairpin, for instance...

Holding in place the large crystal barrette that I had in my hair (though it was now slightly askew from my struggle with the brutes who had grabbed hold of me,) was a long, metal pin, about the width of a pencil. I judged the size of the gap between the closed doors, and realised that it would fit nicely. Acting quickly, for I did not know when the carriage would begin to move again, I unfastened my barrette, and slid the metal pin in to the gap just below the latch. It took a slight amount of manoeuvring, as the chains surrounding the latch were bulky and difficult to get around, and I was afraid that my captors might hear the tell-tale clinking of a lock being tampered with. I finally managed to lift the latch, however, and found that the doors moved out a little more when pushed, giving me a glimpse of the glistening wet cobbles of the street below. The only thing that I had to get around now was the chain...

This was going to be decidedly more difficult. The chain was heavy, and while it was true that I might be able to slowly slide it off with the use of my hairpin, there was no chance that the men lurking outside the carriage would not notice this. I thought about shouting for help through the loose doors, but my captors were close by (close enough to slam the doors too again, and drive the carriage away before anyone could come running to my assistance,) and Osnaburgh Street was a quiet little place, where no one was likely to hear me in time. Just as I was about to return, dismally to my corner, however, I thought about what Holmes would do. He had often berated me about being far too forward and free with my emotions. Perhaps now was the time, not to act out and scream for help, but to simply listen quietly for anything that might help me in my bid to escape? I had created a good sized gap between the doors that I could listen through, and as I leaned forward, peering out, cautiously, I realised that the men were in fact speaking, but in incredibly low voices, a little distance away from the carriage.

" 'e's late," an irritable voice muttered through chattering teeth.

"Pipe down," another quiet voice replied, this one with a distinct Scottish bur. "The boss said t' keep a cool head, otherwise that little brat'll pounce on the first chance she gets t' knock us all fer six n' be off!"

"Not much chance of that," another, much smoother voice commented, and I caught a whiff of rich, Eastern tobacco. "She's a skinny little thing. Nothing we can't handle."

"She's an 'olmes," the voice of the first man said, forebodingly, and I felt a rush of satisfaction at the fact that this man clearly had some fearful respect for Holmes's reputation. "Can't take any chances. Who knows what tricks 'e's taught 'er!"

There was a sneer, and this time I even saw the stream of cigar smoke sail past, like a grey wraith through the night air.

"Whatever he may have taught her, he certainly hasn't taught her to evade bullets," the third voice chuckled, poisonously. "Might I remind you that it was _I _who shot her previously? Whatever your own fears may be, I can assure you that you are quite safe with me." There was a mocking tone to this last statement, and one of the men gave a slight sound of protest, though the other gave a grunt that signalled him to be quiet. "A sixteen year old girl against the finest Shikari in India," the third man continued, haughtily. "I doubt that we will have any trouble."

At first, a terrible sickening feeling had begun to brew in my stomach as the man spoke, but I now found that it was replaced with a hot anger, and I longed to get out of the carriage, and vent all my rage on the man who had hurt me. But I contained myself, as I could hear the sound of another trap slowly approaching across the cobbles. It sounded like a carriage of about the same size.

"Good evening, gentlemen," a deep, proper sort of voice with the texture of red wine said, flatly. "Atrocious weather, don't you think?"

"C'mon, old man, just get on with it and give us the money, so we can be on our way!" the voice of the first man whined. Then he yelped, and there was the sound of something firm slapping against something else (probably the back of a head.)

"Mind yer manners!" the Scottish man barked, roughly. "So sorry 'bout that, sir. I hope we're on time, n' the Professor's pleased with all we've done, n'..."

"Yes, yes, yes, you'll get your money! But I fear you might have missed something rather important. Did you use the sleeping draught I gave you on the girl when you took her?"

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, accompanied by the sound of two pairs of awkward, scuffling boots.

"Ah...Yes, well, 'bout that, sir..."

"We still got 'er in the back and everything, though she didn't 'alf struggle. Kicked me right in the you-know-what's, she did..."

"They lost the sleeping draught, sir," the third man cut in, imperiously. "Fed it to their dog by mistake, I believe."

I almost laughed.

"That is very unfortunate, Sebastian," that proper, well-clipped voice replied, scoldingly. "You were instructed to keep an eye on this bumbling pair of idiots. However, Professor Moriarty feared that such a mishap might occur, which is why he asked me to bring an extra phial. And it appears you need it."

"She's been dead quiet, sir," the first man piped up, indignantly. "We 'aven't 'ad any trouble from 'er at all."

"That I do not doubt, Mr. Perkins. It is most unwise, when eavesdropping on the conversation of your kidnappers, to draw attention to yourself in any way. I am sure the young lady knows that..."

My stomach lurched in horror, and I slammed the carriage doors too, and retreated to the back of the dark space, feeling cornered, like a rat. As I heard the sound of the chains rattling on the other side of the doors, however, I resolved that the only thing I could do was fight, and see if I could get past them when they flung the doors open. Then I could run for the main street, and...Well, continue to run, seemed the best option.

Dim light then flooded in to the shuttered carriage, along with a gust of cold air, and I made out the outlines of three shadowy figures looking in at me. There was no time to lose. With a deep breath, I flung myself as hard as I could at the opening, and landed stomach first on a pair of broad, bony shoulders. The man whom I had landed on grappled to get a hold of me, but I thrust my hand in to his face, and kicked until I was falling over the top of his tall form, and stumbling down on to the wet, rubbish-strewn cobbles of the dark street. A short distance away was the entrance on to the much busier Albany Street, and I was sure that I could lose them if I got in amongst the night time crowds. However, standing just in front of the entrance, bathed by the light of a nearby street lamp, was a short, stumpy, white-haired man in a black, gold-buttoned cloak, and a smart bowler hat, watching me with keen and evil little eyes. I must admit that the sight of him sent a strange chill through me, and I stood, dumbly for a few seconds, unsure of what to do.

"That's enough!" I was suddenly set upon by a pair of steely arms, and before I knew it, the third man of the group – the assassin Smith, as I knew he was – had pinned my arms behind my back, keeping me facing forwards, so that I could not see his face. "Keep still, or I'll break your arm!"

Though I had no doubt, judging by his grip, that he could easily have done as he said, I ignored his command, and slammed back against him, attempting to throw him off of me. I succeeded in knocking one arm out of his grasp, and tried to run free, but Smith still had a tight grip on my other arm, and clung to it as fiercely as a lion clings to its caught prey. At this point, another member of the group – a pale little young man in a cloth cap – called urgently to his friend, the tall, burly Scotsman, and ran towards me, as though to help Smith wrestle me to the ground. I had the use of one hand, however, and lashed out, savagely at his face, clawing at his cheek so that I drew blood. The man shrieked, and at this the Scotsman, as though his patience had finally worn thin, came forward, shoving his little friend out of the way, and grasped my shoulder in a grip so tight it made me scream. He and Smith succeeded in pinning me down, and I felt tears flood my eyes as I crouched on my knees on the cobbles, crushed and bruised by the weight of both of them.

"Sebastian, McKnight!" the black-clad man standing a little distance away suddenly yelled in his well-mannered voice. "That is quite enough! Where is your sense of decency? Professor Moriarty does not wish the young lady to be harmed!"

The two of them backed off as their superior came sauntering towards where I lay, still shamefully on my knees, and brushing away the tears that had spilled over out of my pain. The man smiled a sweet and charming smile, though I saw through it as clearly as I could see through a window.

"There, there, my dear little miss," he muttered, bending down with some effort, and reaching out a gloved hand to touch me. "I'm awfully sorry for what these brutes have done to you. Here, let's get you up, and we can be on our way..."

I slapped aside his looming hand, and glared, fiercely at him, determined not to show any signs of submission or fear. The man smiled again, and chuckled, and there was a surprising amount of warmth in that chuckle, as though he were greatly amused.

"Something of a temper, I see," he said, unfurling his hand, and revealing the little green glass bottle he held within it. "Well, it seems we have no choice. Perkins, if you've quite finished whimpering?"

The young man whom I had scratched was still bent over, a hand clasped to his bleeding cheek, as he snivelled, pitifully to himself. The black dressed man rolled his eyes.

"Well, McKnight then."

The tall Scotsman once again held me in a choking embrace, harshly lifting my chin, and holding my face out towards the black dressed man. I watched, eyes bulging, as he uncorked his little bottle, and held it under my nose. The smell was not entirely unpleasant, but very heavy, and I could tell from the way that my eyelids instantly drooped that it was not good for me to breathe it in. I tried, desperately to wrench my face out of the Scotsman's grasp, but the potion was already going to work, reducing my limbs slowly to water, and causing blackness to trickle in to my vision.

"That's it," the short, black dressed man said, soothingly from somewhere I could not quite see, and I felt myself falling forwards, and landing in a pair of surprisingly soft arms. "Go to sleep, there's a good girl..."


	3. Chapter 2

**From the journal of Dr. John Watson: **

I write this now alone and by candlelight, the door to my room securely fastened, and with the watch lying before me on the desk informing me that it is well past midnight. This account must be written in complete secrecy, lest Holmes discover that I have been scribbling of that horrifying night that we had all sworn to forget, and, worse still, of Miss Winchester's existence. At first, I could not for the life of me understand why Holmes was so averse to my writing of any case that had involved Miss Harriett Winchester; but now, sitting here amongst the cold mountains and the dark pine forests where we are so hunted, I finally understand all, and I would not wish to endanger dear Miss Winchester for anything. That is why this account is to be kept entirely for my eyes only, until the day when we are all hopefully free of that beast Moriarty, and such a dark and sinister adventure may at last be shared with the world.

But now, to the night itself...

**23****rd**** April 1891 **

**8:00pm**

"_Let her go, your rogues!" _

The horror and astonishment that I had momentarily felt at bursting out on to the street to find three strange men dragging the blindfolded Miss Winchester in to the back of a carriage quickly dissolved, and turned to burning rage and fury. With a fierce protective instinct that I had only ever felt before when Holmes was in danger, I rushed forward, and was greeted with the shoulder of one of the three men, which ploughed in to me at such speed that I was sent flying back a good few feet, and landed sprawled on the ground. My shoulder throbbed with pain, but I ignored it in the heat of the moment, and staggered back up to fight, running towards the back of the man who had tackled me. He wore a knitted scarf about his face, as did the other two, and this I used to yank him back and knot about his throat in a suffocating slip knot, pulling until he choked and gargled for breath. Then, to my complete surprise, the man (who was only a few inches taller than myself,) threw himself forward, sending my weight catapulting with him, and tossing me over his shoulder as though I were a cloth sack. As I fell, however, I ripped the knit scarf from his face...

"_You!"_

The face was considerably less wrinkled than the last time I had seen it, and the nose appeared to be an altogether different shape, but I instantly recognised the beady, glaring, swampy green eyes of Smith, the murderer of Ernest and Rebecca Moore, and very nearly of Miss Winchester. In a flash, Smith flung the scarf back across his face, and retreated from my line of vision, leaving me once again sprawled on the ground. As I struggled to get to my feet, however (the pain in my shoulder was now beyond ignoring, but I fought against it as best I could,) I suddenly heard a fierce thump and a groan of pain, and looked up to see Holmes, still in his shirtsleeves, putting on a fierce stance on the other side of the street, and standing over the crumpled form of one of the other brutes (the smallest of the three.)

"Appalling," he said, scornfully, and I must admit that my heart rejoiced to hear the old jibe and sneer in his voice once more; "A completely blind and rather predictable right swing, very easily blocked, my dear fellow."

So preoccupied were we with our own two challengers, however, that we completely ignored the third man, who still had a fierce grip on Miss Winchester. It was the sound of the poor, desperate girl screaming Holmes's name that finally made us turn to see the gigantically tall brute lifting her like a ragdoll, and tossing her in to the dark of the carriage, bolting the doors after her. Holmes tore towards the man, but was easily deflected with a burly arm, and I cried out in horror as he stumbled and collided with a lamp post, cutting his lip so that it bled. I got to my feet, and ran to where he lay, dazed and still frail from the strain of the past week. Before I could even touch him, however, he had staggered to his feet, and dashed to the now bolted and chained carriage doors, beating them relentlessly with his fists, and bellowing at the three curs to let Miss Winchester go. They, however, had already climbed aboard the carriage, and the tall, burly driver was calling to his horses, and lashing his whip.

In desperation (and, I must admit, temporary lunacy,) I darted out in front of horses, trap and all, only to have it rush, swiftly past me, a mere few inches from my shoulder. As the carriage passed, however, a new sensation of horror came over me, as I saw that Holmes was clinging to the back of it, in a reckless attempt to unloop the chains that held the carriage doors fastened.

"Holmes, _no!_" (Why I wasted my breath with this plea I do not know, as it never seemed have any affect.)

I made an ambling run after the carriage, my own despair violently draining my energy, and watched as it swerved about the corner at the far end of Baker Street, its horses leaping across the cobbles and tossing their heads with the effort. A thrill of terror then shot through me as I saw Holmes thrown clear of the back of the carriage. I momentarily lost sight of him as he rolled across the street, but, upon coming parallel with the corner, I found him lying crumpled in the gutter, the blood from his cut lip streaming down his chin, his entire body trembling from shock and sheer exhaustion.

"Holmes!" I hastily helped him up, keeping a tight hold of him, as I could see that his eyes were still fixed, firmly on the retreating carriage, and he had no intention of giving up in his pursuit of it. It was then that the panicked cries of poor Miss Winchester came drifting back to us through the silver mist, and my already bleeding heart nearly shattered at the sound. Holmes's face convulsed, and he lunged forwards, ready to take off after the carriage once more, but I clung to him and pulled him back. He was in a very delicate state, and if he exerted anymore strain on himself tonight it would surely cause lasting damage.

"Holmes, you mustn't!" I pleaded, as he fought to get away from me. "Please, don't do this to yourself; you know what kind of condition you're in..."

"_No!_" Holmes screamed, as the black shape of the carriage finally vanished in to the mist. "_No!_"

I had never seen my friend so hysterical, and his behaviour only confirmed the thoughts that I had been having of late – That he had come to care (far more than he was willing to admit,) for his little cousin, and the very thought that he had let her down and allowed her to be taken by these mysterious fiends burned him and stung at him in ways that he had never before experienced. Though I shared some of his pain, I knew that I could not allow poor Holmes to drive himself in to a fit in the middle of the street, for his sake and indeed for Miss Winchester's. We were of no use to that dear girl as broken and ruined wrecks!

"Inside, Holmes!" I insisted, taking hold of his feather-light form (he had been gradually wearing himself to the bone with his cocaine use,) and dragging him, forcefully up the street. "You need to stay calm! Miss Winchester will be lost forever if you push yourself – _Holmes!_"

He had suddenly keeled over in agony, his face blanched white and glistening with moisture, while his eyes rolled back in to his head. I quickly checked his temperature. The terrible fever that he had been suffering through for all of that day had finally broken, leaving his body dappled with random spots of burning fever and ice-like chills. He was delirious, but much more compliant at least, and I heaved him up, and flung his arm over my shoulders, carrying him uneasily back to our lodgings. Mrs. Hudson was frantic.

"Dr. Watson, what on earth's happened?" she sobbed, pressing a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her face, while Gladstone barked, protestingly from behind the shut parlour door. "Who were those men? Where have they taken Miss Winchester?"

I wanted to soothe the lady, but I could not for the life of me think how. The situation was too desperate for lies.

"I don't know, Mrs. Hudson," I said, with a long and bitter sigh. "I feel a useless, beaten fool saying it, but I just don't know. This whole affair has me completely in the dark! I'm sure Holmes knows something more than I do, he's been acting strangely for weeks, but in this state..."

I indicated Holmes's limp, pale form at my side, despairingly, and was just about to ask Mrs. Hudson to assist me in carrying him upstairs, when his eyelids suddenly began to flicker, and he grabbed, violently at my tie.

"Holmes?"

His eyes rolled, uncertainly in their sockets. I could not be sure if he was aware of what he was doing or not. I could hear him rasping for breath, however, and so lifted his chin and hoisted him up a little in the hope of making his breathing more comfortable. As I did so, he seemed to become conscious for a moment, and hissed a word; _"Packages."_

At first, I thought that poor Holmes was merely muttering, deliriously through his broken fever. But at the mention of the word, Mrs. Hudson's red and weeping eyes widened suddenly, and she gasped, and clasped her hands over her mouth.

"Mrs. Hudson?" I said, looking at her, curiously. "What is it?"

"The packages, Doctor!" she cried, flapping her hands, and once again on the brink of tears. "Those strange packages, addressed to Miss Winchester, I said I had a bad feeling about them..!"

We were beginning to slowly descend in to a pit of madness, and, realising that we could not go on in such a frantic state, I held up a hand to silence the hysterical Mrs. Hudson. Something terrible had just occurred. We all needed to remain calm. We needed to keep our wits about us, or we would have no hope of finding and helping Miss Winchester.

"Mrs. Hudson," I began, solidly, and I felt some of the old authority that I had learnt whilst serving in Afghanistan returning to my being; "Mr. Holmes is very ill. He will need plenty of blankets, a bowl of hot water combined with a spoonful of brandy, my medical bag, and some Ginseng boiled strongly in a kettle. Please bring all of that to the sitting room upstairs at once. And whilst you prepare the tincture, might I suggest that you also pour yourself a sherry? We all need to collect our nerves."

Our dear landlady took a few deep breaths, swallowed her tears, and nodded, though she still kept the handkerchief raised to her tear-stained face. As she went away on her task, I gently led the limp, staggering Holmes up the stairs, and laid him comfortably on the settee, where he either rested or slept (It was difficult to tell if he was conscious or not.) Soon after, the now composed Mrs. Hudson had brought me everything I had requested, and I mended Holmes's split lip, checked his head for any signs of injury from where he had been thrown against the lamp post, wrapped him carefully in blankets, gauged his temperature, and placed the bowl of hot water and brandy just beside his weary head, in order for him to take in the fumes. It was then, and only then, that I turned my attention to this mysterious package business.

Mrs. Hudson had mentioned something about strange packages arriving for Miss Winchester – packages which she had clearly been suspicious of – and Holmes seemed to know something of them too. The fact that he had not mentioned anything of them to me was not exactly startling (Holmes often kept secrets and failed to tell people things of vital importance,) and Mrs. Hudson was unlikely to share something that she considered to be Miss Winchester's business. That was all perfectly normal. Rather, it was Miss Winchester's silence that concerned me the most. Either the packages were nothing to fear (which was unlikely if Holmes was interested in them,) or the young lady had been too frightened to tell us of what they contained. If these packages were not linked in some way to what had happened that night, then I was ready to declare myself a dunce there and then!

I ascended the stairs to the second floor, and pushed open the door to Miss Winchester's room. Though every gentlemanly instinct in me told me that it was a terribly unorthodox thing to simply walk in to a lady's room, and even more so to search through her belongings, I realised that it could well mean life or death for Miss Winchester. We had no clue as to who had taken her (besides the fact that the murderer Smith was amongst them, which did not bode well,) and no idea as to where they would hide her, and the packages may have contained vital information. And so I entered the dark little storage room that had been dressed meagrely as a bedroom for Miss Winchester's use, and immediately spotted a pile of beautifully striped crimson and black paper lying on the floor, along with a length of deep red velvet ribbon. Curiously, I picked up the ribbon, and noticed its peculiar scent. It smelt of perfume – Not Miss Winchester's perfume (she wore none,) but a strange and exotic blend of oriental fragrances, something rich and rather fussy. Who on earth would send Miss Winchester something like this?

The next thing that I noticed was the cardboard box that had been left on the bed (Undoubtedly the box that had once been wrapped in the crimson and black striped paper.) It was a solemn, coal black, rather sinister looking thing, and I nervously lifted the lid to find a piece of exquisite scarlet silk inside. But that was not all. Sitting on top of the silk, like some mocking, vicious parody of a lover's token, was a torn, thick-stemmed, black petalled rose. The sight of it sent a chill sweeping down my spine, and I also felt a stab of remorse at the fact that I had not seen that Miss Winchester was being besieged with these horrid gifts. But there was no note with the rose, no card, nothing – Nothing that could possibly have helped us find whoever it was that had taken Miss Winchester. So I made a search about the room, looking for the other packages that Mrs. Hudson had mentioned (there had been more than one,) until I came to the chest of drawers at the back of the room, where Miss Winchester kept her clothes. Again, I felt terribly guilty at having to search through Miss Winchester's belongings, but it was the one place in the room that I had not yet checked, and therefore the last place where the missing packages could be hiding. Taking hold of the handles, I decided to open the bottom drawer first...

And gasped with horror at what I found inside.


	4. Chapter 3

**From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:**

**9:30pm**

I was awoken some time later by a gentle rocking sensation, and opened my eyes to find myself lying flat on my back, staring up at a dark wooden ceiling, with an iron oil lamp swinging too and fro. I groaned. I was back in the carriage. Not only that, but I now had not the slightest idea as to where I was, and, although I scrabbled across the wooden floor and pressed my ear against the wall, I could not make out a single sound that might help me gauge my location. I thought about trying the door again, and leaping from the carriage while it was in motion, but, to my great dismay, I found that my hair barrette had fallen off during the struggle in Osnaburgh Street. I was now completely helpless, and could only wait until the carriage finally arrived at its mysterious destination, and I was dealt with in whatever way this Moriarty had ordered...Then, suddenly, the carriage stopped.

My heart nearly missed a beat. I drew my knees towards me as a strange knocking sound came from without the carriage – it sounded almost like someone drumming Morse code against a door – and another, equally strange knock came in reply. There was a rattling of locks, a brief snatch of muttered conversation, and then the sound of the chains that fastened the carriage doors being pulled away, before the doors themselves swung open.

"Ah, awake I see," the short, white-haired man who had drugged me smiled, pleasantly. "Well, I'm sure you won't attempt anything silly, like last time. Just come along with me now, dear, you won't come to any harm."

As he spoke, his cloak twitched aside slightly, and I caught a glimpse of a blade gleaming at his belt. The gesture was undoubtedly deliberate, as there was cold, knowing look in the man's eyes as he held out his hand to me. I had no alternative. I carefully picked myself up, and stepped down out of the carriage, ignoring the man's offered hand, and instead giving him a particularly sour look. I felt the tip of the knife pushed instantly against my side, though my kidnapper kept up his gentlemanly facade, and kept the rest of the blade concealed under his cloak.

"This way, miss," he said, and jabbed me a little with the knife for encouragement.

The carriage had been pulled up directly outside a pair of wooden doors that led downwards, rather like the doors to a cellar. I was not allowed to look about me as I stepped away from the carriage (the man at my side held me by the back of my head,) and all I could see was that the doors were at the base of a dilapidated, grey house, its few windows cracked, and curtained by thick cobwebs, and its drainpipes and gutterings beginning to give way to the crushing embrace of ivy.

I made my way through the open doors, and found myself on a small, brick stairway, lit rather menacingly with the use of a few low burning iron lanterns. My captor shut the doors behind us with a slam, and then directed me down the stairway with a few prods of the knife (We were forced to slouch, and shuffled along rather slowly, as there was barely enough room for us both on so narrow a stairway.) The dim light meant that I could not quite see what was ahead of me, but as I reached the last step, I found the space at the bottom of the stairway to be lit with yet more lanterns, showing me a bare, stone room, that did indeed look like a cellar. There was also a figure, clad entirely in green, waiting at the bottom of the steps. I screamed.

"Not to worry, miss," the man at my side chuckled, reassuringly. "Feng here is perfectly harmless."

Of that I was not so sure. The small, stocky man who lurked at the bottom of the stairway stood calm and still, his posture seemingly as rigid as iron, and his expression completely unreadable; but there was a suspicion in his almond-shaped, impossibly dark eyes that suggested he was a coiled spring, ready to leap in to frantic battle at any moment, with all the energy and ferocity of a tiger.

He was the most peculiar looking man I had ever seen. In the flickering light of the lanterns, I saw that his skin had an unusual, dusky tone to it, and his face was sharp and thin, and almost feminine-looking. His hair gleamed a deep, ebony black, and trailed down his neck in a small plait, fastened with bronze beads. I had never seen the people of the East before, but my stepmother Rowena had been very fond of their artwork, and had filled her house with a number of beautiful Chinese paintings, depicting elegant women with porcelain skin, jet black hair, and strange, cat-like eyes. They were only paintings, of course, but this man had a look of them about him. It was not, however, his strange looks which had made me scream – It was the hideous scar that marred his face just beside his right eye, livid red and a ghastly shape, as though someone had lashed a chain across his face.

"This is the young lady, Feng," my captor said, removing the knife from my side for the first time. "Everything else has been taken care of. Is Professor Moriarty ready to see her?"

The man bowed his head, solemnly, and without a word went over to a large, round, metal cover in the middle of the cellar floor, that looked (rather ominously,) as though it led down to a sewer or a coal pit. I took a tiny, almost non-existent step back as he then removed a metal rod from his silk belt, and used it to pry the cover aside, revealing a large hole in the floor. There was a brief pause while the man stood at the edge of the hole, peering down in to it in a rather curious fashion. Then, to my complete surprise, he neatly lifted one foot off of the ground, and leapt down in to the hole, either landing as deftly as a cat below, or falling such a distance that I did not hear him make contact with the floor. I glanced up at the beaming man at my side, who politely (but coldly,) gestured towards the hole in the cellar floor.

"After you, miss," he said, courteously.

I looked, wide-eyed back at the hole, but the jolly man at my side pushed me forwards, and I approached it with my heart pounding. As I reached the edge, however, I was surprised and somewhat relieved to see the man Feng standing just a few feet below, unfurling a small ladder or set of steps, crafted of brass and ivory. I carefully made my way down the make-shift steps with Feng watching my every move, and was amazed to find myself in what looked, by all respects, like the corridor of a rich house, finely and strikingly decorated with an exquisite, Eastern patterned wallpaper, bearing golden dragons and red and purple lotus flowers, and a plush, crimson carpet on the floor. The corridor was well lit with glittering crystal lamps, and there was a familiar scent in the air that I instantly recognised as the oriental perfume that I had smelled on those threatening packages.

"Thank you very much, Feng," the other man said, slowly making his way down the steps behind me (His weight made them creak.) "Perhaps you'd like to take the young lady's cloak?"

Feng turned to me, his face still expressionless, and gave the smallest of bows, before holding out his arm for my cloak. I was so astonished by the impossibility of my surroundings that I handed it to him as easily as if I were a guest in someone's home. The other man did the same, shedding his buttoned cloak and bowler hat to reveal, rather to my surprise, a butler's uniform (Though it was a very fine one, with pinstriped trousers, a crisp, white collar, brilliant gold cufflinks, and a black velvet tailcoat with a linen handkerchief in the breast pocket.) The two men then exchanged a brief bow, before Feng turned and strode away up the left side of the corridor, while my captor took me by the shoulder, and steered me to the right.

"This way, miss," he said, still smiling that bright but insincere smile.

We marched for several minutes through a maze of beautiful corridors, passing fine pieces of art and unusually carved doorways as we went. I was too astounded to do anything other than walk obediently beside my captor, and look around. I could only imagine what strange and difficult work must have gone in to the creation of such a place. It was like a richly furnished, underground fortress, with only the absence of any windows and the rather stifling heat to suggest that it was underground at all. By all other respects, it looked like a vast, eccentric manor house.

At last, we came to a large, magnificent set of double doors, set slightly apart from the rest of the rooms that were scattered about the branching corridors. They were crafted of black ebony, adorned with scrolling silver, and flanked by a pair of black marble panthers. The butler knocked, briskly at the doors, and waited for a reply.

"Yes, come in," an intelligent, well-bred voice called from within.

The butler shot me one last reptilian smile, before flinging the doors wide open, and ushering me inside. I was in a large, peculiar study, its walls beautifully panelled with darkest mahogany, and each panel expertly painted with motifs of emerald green dragons and black panthers. A ladder led up to a small walkway that ran around the top of the room, rimmed with a brass handrail, and leading past an impressive collection of rose red and deep brown leather-bound books. There were several, ancient-looking glass cases placed here and there about the room, each one containing a striking taxidermy animal – foxes, ravens, bats, exotic birds – frozen forever in some horrific, death-like pose. A wonderful stained-glass globe, tinted with delicate colours of rose pink and leaf green, sparkled in the light of a small fireplace with a black and silver mantelpiece, and a pale, curling stream of rich incense smoke trickled forth from the mouth of a large, green bronze dragon.

And finally, in the centre of the room, stood against a backdrop of bewitching jewelled bottles that lined the shelves on the wall behind it, was a large, beautifully crafted, mahogany desk, lovingly polished, and gilded about the edges with gold, its top bearing an elegantly painted motif of an Eastern garden. A man stood alone behind the desk, his back turned to the door, and his chin slightly lifted, apparently admiring the collection of jewelled bottles on the wall.

"Thank you Albert, that will be all," he said, without turning round. The butler gave an unnoticed but solemn bow, before leaving the room.

I stood, uncertainly near the doorway, both enraptured by the beauty of my surroundings, and terrified of the strange man who stood before me – Apparently the very man who had sent me those bizarre packages, threatened me with notes, and keenly watched my every move, and had now organised and acted out my kidnap. Finally, after briefly checking the time on his watch, he turned to face me, and smiled a truly repulsive smile that made the butler's look charmingly sincere in comparison. He was approaching elderly, with a gaunt, wolf-like face that, despite its general air of menace, seemed capable of putting on the most sincere displays of charm and amiability. His forehead was rather domed, and his fine, smoke-grey hair rather long, just like the hair of his pronounced eyebrows, which beetled above sunken, midnight black eyes. He was thin and somewhat stooped, his tight fighting, black suit (cut in a rather old-fashioned style,) almost creaking at the seams to contain his tall but distinctly angular figure. I was reminded both of an ancient, dusty and decaying book, and of a vulture.

"Ah, Miss Holmes," he said, making his way across the room with slow, creaking footsteps, and offering me a haggard old hand, with long, almost talon-like fingernails; "How wonderful to meet you at last. Though I only wish it could have been under better circumstances. I am Professor James Moriarty."

I stood, frozen for a moment, with every instinct in my body urging me not to take the man's hand. I breathed deeply, keeping my composure, and not responding to his greeting, merely because I could not think of anything to say (Though I hoped that it looked more as if I was insolently ignoring him.) His smile did not falter, however, and he looked me, intently up and down, his dark eyes pausing at my hands.

"Dear me," he said, and a hint of sadness and disappointment came to his smile. "You're not wearing the ring I sent you. I must admit to being a little hurt."

Goosebumps covered my flesh, but I forced myself to stare, defiantly in to his eyes.

"Rebecca Moore's ring?" I said, bristling with sudden anger as I remembered her fate. "You killed her. You worked with Matthew Blackburn and killed her, you reptile."

I suppressed a shudder as Moriarty's smile broadened, flashing his teeth like a grinning crocodile.

"It was a business transaction," he said, evenly; "A mere business transaction, my dear girl, and not murder. I'm sure you will come to understand in time. But please, I do not wish for us to get off on the wrong foot, Miss Holmes..."

"Winchester," I corrected him. Moriarty blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name's Winchester, not Holmes."

Moriarty nodded, understandingly, with an unsettling gleam in his eye.

"I'm sorry – Miss Winchester," he said, apologetically; "It has been extremely difficult for us to learn your name, we only knew that you were a relative of Mr. Sherlock Holmes..."

"What do you mean 'us'?" I said, beginning to feel a little more assertive and confident in myself. "Who are you?"

Moriarty's thin, withered lips curled in to one of the most sinister smiles I have ever seen in my life.

"That I shall explain to you, my dear..."


	5. Chapter 4

**Note from Agatha: Sorry this is taking so long. Currently in the process of applying for university :D Updates should start speeding up in a couple of weeks (when I have more time to write.)**

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><p><strong>From the journal of Dr. John Watson:<strong>

**8:15pm**

I had been sitting, anxiously in my armchair for some minutes, rocking, insensibly back and forth like some poor demented patient in a lunatic asylum, when Holmes gently began to stir.

"Watson?"

I nearly leapt from my skin, my nerves were so shot; but I calmly rose from my chair, and crossed the room to the settee.

"You're putting too much stress on yourself, Holmes," I said, chidingly, rearranging his blankets around him. "You need rest. Your temperature is still not quite as settled as I would like it to be."

"What happened?" I could see from the way that he hastily struggled up from his position on the settee and from the steadily building look of urgency in his eyes that I was going to have something of a struggle on my hands. "The carriage...Watson, those brutes have taken Miss Winchester!..."

"I am well aware of that, Holmes," I said, with a fierce, painful twinge striking at my heart; "But you are recovering from severe...Well, your body has been extremely _taxed _of late. There is nothing you can do for Miss Winchester in your present state, unless you happen to know just who has taken her..."

Here he viciously slapped my arm away from him, and flung his blankets to the floor.

"Faugh, Watson, don't you see?" he said, earnestly, and I once again saw the Great Detective returning to his pale and withered features. "Of course I know who has taken her! And, unless I am very much mistaken, you now know also."

Though I had a good idea as to what he meant, I feigned confusion.

"I have not the slightest idea, Holmes."

Holmes's face flinched strangely, and I realised that he had just cast me a flickering smile.

"Watson, your eyebrows arch peculiarly when you lie, and you always direct your words either to the floor or to the lamp rather than to me. And besides, the packages are quite visible under your chair. Have you had a chance to observe them properly?"

Realising that my game was up, I sighed, wearily, and retrieved the three objects from under my chair – The jewellery box that contained the engagement ring of the late Miss Rebecca Moore, the box of chocolates decorated with the colours of the Tsarina Alexandra's necklace and a sprig of mistletoe, and the coal black box containing that vile, ruined black rose. I placed each item on Holmes's lap for him to inspect, and I saw his powers instantly go to work. He delicately examined every visible inch of the strange objects, running his fingertips over them, holding them just millimetres from his face, and even sniffing at them, curiously. There were notes with two of the objects. Holmes read them, gravely, though there was no sign on his face of the deep horror which had struck me upon my reading of them.

"It is as I feared," he said, quietly, his fingers toying with the torn petals of the black rose. "Watson, I am afraid that I have not been entirely frank with you..."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"No, no, it is a rather more serious matter this time." He reached across for his cigarette case that was on the side table, but I snatched it away before he could reach it. He looked, steadily at me for a moment, his dark eyes silently irritated, before lying back with a shrug and a sigh.

"For some time now, I have suspected that certain dark agencies are at work around us," he began (melodramatically, as always.) "Several prominent criminals and self-proclaimed 'artists' of crime have taken an interest in my career in the past, but never to this extent. I believe that this fiend, whoever he is, is the prominent brains and intellect behind an extremely powerful crime ring, which is intent on seeing me brought to my knees."

I must confess that I was stunned in to silence by this revelation. Holmes, however, waited patiently for me to regain my tongue, and, when I finally realised that he was waiting for me to make comment, I shook myself, and said;

"I tore the mask off of one of those fellows who grabbed Miss Winchester. It was that brute who shot her all those weeks ago, the assassin who Blackburn hired to kill Rebecca Moore and her father...Smith."

"Indeed," Holmes nodded, as though this was no surprise to him. "I explained to you at the time that this Smith was a member of that notorious criminal agency. I believed then that we would never learn the identity of his employer...Now it seems as though we might. They have always been lurking in the shadows, you see – Observing keenly, but never getting near enough to allow _me_ an opportunity of observing _them_. They have remained a mystery to me, frustrating me in all my efforts to learn just who they are and where they may be found."

This suddenly revealed knowledge that we had (for an unknown amount of time,) been under deep scrutiny from unseen pairs of eyes unsettled me; but it unsettled me even more to learn that those eyes were a mystery even to Holmes.

"But why have they taken Miss Winchester, Holmes?" I said, desperately. "If it is you that this organisation is bent on ruining, then why abduct the girl?"

A strange tension seemed to come over Holmes. I saw his jaw tighten, his left eye twitch, and his fist close around the corner of one of his blankets.

"That I wish I knew, Watson," he muttered, darkly. "Since Miss Winchester's arrival here, this notorious criminal mastermind seems to have taken a rather, shall we say...," he looked, distastefully at the notes, "..._pressing _interest in her, and is desperate for her to leave us. Why, however, I am afraid I have not the faintest idea."

"Well, Miss Winchester is a rather attractive girl, Holmes..."

Holmes glared, frostily at me.

"I meant that I had not the faintest idea as to _why he was desperate for her to leave, _Watson!" he snapped, irritably. "Surely he can't perceive the poor girl as a threat?"

"It's possible," I said (I knew that Holmes had not been blind to his cousin's intelligence, despite his low opinion of women.) "She does, after all Holmes, seem to have a touch of your skill."

Holmes looked sceptical.

"Abilities such as mine are attained through training, Watson, not bloodline," he said, severely. But, after a moment or two, his expression seemed to soften. "However, the girl certainly has the potential...Were she to simply curb that temper of hers...I imagine she could be sparkling...But no, she is nothing of a threat to one such as he. Undoubtedly, our enemy believes he might throw me in to panic or gain some advantage over me by taking her. He seems to be under the impression that she is of sentimental value to me."

He kept his face perfectly cool and unfathomable as he spoke, but I was not to be deceived. I had seen the frantic way he had run after that carriage, how the sight of it disappearing in to the mist with Miss Winchester had plunged him in to despair.

"Holmes, I know that you have become fond of her," I said (a daring move which earned me a haughty tut and a sardonically raised eyebrow;) "But you must remember that you are still very ill. Save your energy for recovering first, and then we will find Miss Winchester."

I expected him to protest (or at least sulk,) but to my surprise, he did neither.

"Certainly, Doctor," he said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice, and remaining utterly still upon the settee. "A man's brain is a fine thing, but the transport must be cared for also, if only for the brain's convenience."

I must say that I was so thrilled by Holmes's uncharacteristic concern for his health that all sensible (i.e. suspicious,) thought left me, and I very foolishly turned my back. The moment I did so, Holmes leapt from the settee, and hared down the stairs to the front door. Cursing myself for my stupidity, I flew after him, and found that he was already out on the street, but had at least taken his coat and hat with him. Collecting my own, I passed out through the front door, and saw Holmes stood in the middle of the street, bent over and apparently searching along the ground for something.

"Holmes, I will not tolerate this!" I said, harshly, as I approached him. "I am not just your friend, I am a medical man, and as a medical man, I must insist that you..."

But he was off, running up the street whilst still keeping his eyes fixed, firmly on the wet ground, letting out a little cry of delight as he did so.

"A track, Watson!" he called, excitedly back to me. "There have been very few people about this evening, the marks of the carriage wheels are still visible! Come, Watson, come, every second that we wait increases the chance of their being blotted out somewhere further along the line!"

I pursed my lips in frustration, and hurried after him, struggling to keep up with his long strides, despite the fact that he merely seemed to be scuttling along like a beetle. We turned the corner of Baker Street, and raced through the night, Holmes following the faint trail of the carriage wheels as keenly as a bloodhound. Marylebone Road we found to be as good as deserted for the first two hundred yards or so, but much livelier as we drew closer to Regent's Park (though the crowds were still very sparse compared to what they usually were on finer nights.) The cold, dank mist that currently seemed to cloak all of London had confined a good many carriages to their posts, and we found the tracks that we sought perfectly unspoiled, and clear enough for us to follow. We whipped through the darkness of the Park Square Gardens, passed the rather comforting light and noise of Regent's Park Station, entered Albany Street, and made our way towards the Royal College of Physicians.

People milled about us, and Holmes cursed at the sight of a tool cart making its way down the street, but his eyes were sharp, and we still kept to the track. I had to apologise to a great number of people that Holmes blindly collided with on his relentless pursuit of the carriage, and as the crowds grew thicker and thicker, and we found ourselves entering Longford Street to the tolling bell of St. Anne's Church, I could not believe that my colleague could still distinguish the track along the cobbles. Indeed, he seemed to be moving with impossible speed, and as I darted about late night theatre goers, and sleeping beggars, and the singing, black-clad congregation of the church beneath the dim orange light of the street lamps, I gradually began to lose sight of him.

"Holmes, wait!" I called after him, clinging to my hat as it nearly toppled off of my head due to a collision with another pedestrian. Then, suddenly, far ahead, I heard a screeching of terrified horses, and a loud, indignant shout. Several people ahead of me turned to look at the commotion.

"Sir, what is the meaning of...?"

"I demand that you open the doors of your carriage!"

"I most certainly shall not! You don't appear to be the police."

"No, sir, I most certainly am not! Now open this carriage at once!"

With a sinking feeling, I waded my way through the small crowd of shocked onlookers, and found Holmes standing toe to toe with a very angry, short, white-haired man in a buttoned cloak and a black bowler hat. Close by stood a carriage very much resembling the one that those three brutes had used to take Miss Winchester.

"Holmes," I said, urgently, hurrying forwards (for I could see that the situation was dangerously close to developing in to a public spectacle;) "Holmes, please, I think you've made a mistake..."

Holmes whirled about and looked at me as though I had just uttered words of blasphemy.

"Don't be absurd, Watson!" he snorted, pointing to the carriage. "Is that not the exact same carriage that we witnessed snatching Miss Winchester?"

"Well, it's very similar Holmes, but you must admit that..."

"_Similar?_" Holmes was near hysterical. "Watson, my good man, it is the very one! The grain of the wood is identical!"

At this, our little, white-haired companion raised his eyebrows.

"Sirs, I'm afraid that your conversation is rather alarming me. I sincerely hope that you do not suspect..."

I gave the man an embarrassed smile, and shuffled close to Holmes's ear;

"Holmes, if this is indeed the carriage that abducted Miss Winchester, then where are the three rogues who were driving it? One of them was Smith, we know that much, but this fellow is nowhere near the height or stature of the other two."

"Faugh, Watson, is it not possible that they could have switched drivers? It is too much of a coincidence, the carriage is identical...I'm afraid that we must insist you allow us to look inside your carriage, sir! If you will not open it for us, well, then I am sure you will open it for Inspector Lestrade or perhaps Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard..."

I fully expected the man to fly at Holmes in a complete rage, but, to my surprise (and certainly to my relief,) he made a courtly gesture with his hand.

"That won't be necessary, gentlemen," he said, reasonably. "I can see that you are on a very important mission. You may open the carriage and see for yourselves."

I went to thank the gentleman for his cooperation, but found myself shoved aside by Holmes, who instantly unbolted the carriage doors, and threw them open...

The carriage was empty.

"What?" Holmes stammered, staring in to the carriage. The white-haired gentleman walked forwards, and closed the doors with a smile.

"There, you see?" he said, cheerily. "Now, if you do not mind gentlemen, I must be on my way..."

"One moment," Holmes said, fiercely, holding out a hand to stay him; "Why, may I ask, are you carting an empty carriage around the centre of London on a night such as this?"

The man smiled a rather cool, reptilian smile, and said, stepping out of Holmes's path; "I am just performing some errands for my employer, sir. Fetching and carrying. Rather important business actually, and I am running a little late." Here he glanced, meaningfully at his watch (It was five minutes to nine.)

"Of course, sir," I said, quickly, stepping forwards to restrain Holmes. "We shan't keep you any longer. I'm so sorry for this misunderstanding."

"Not at all, sir, not at all. Well, goodnight." He smiled a polite (if strained,) smile to Holmes, and then brushed past me to get to his trap. I took Holmes by the arm, and forcefully led him away through the mass of staring people.

"I certainly hope you're pleased with yourself!" I snapped the moment we were a safe distance from any curious listeners. "You accused a perfectly innocent man of abducting a young girl!"

Holmes's pale face contorted strangely, and he shuffled his feet, and glanced at the ground as though it had wronged him in some way.

"I must have confused the tracks of that carriage somewhere along the way with the tracks of Miss Winchester's carriage," he said, sourly, fidgeting on the spot as though he were uncomfortable. "It was a foolish mistake, I should have been paying closer attention..."

"Holmes, you followed that trail as closely as any bloodhound," I said, exasperatedly. "If you did make a mistake, then it was one that could not have been avoided. The cobbles are dryer in this part of the city anyway, there are a thousand smaller avenues along this way, and...Holmes, are you alright?"

I noticed with horror that Holmes's downturned face had turned a shade paler, and he swayed slightly, and sat himself down on a nearby stone ledge.

"It is nothing, Watson," he said, dismissively, brushing away a bead of sweat that trickled down his temple. "I exhausted myself with the run, that's all, I need a moment to catch my breath..."

"You're in a very fragile state, Holmes," I said, delving in to my pocket for my handkerchief to wipe his brow. "Over exerting yourself when your body is in need of recovery could cause serious damage, and you must..."

At that moment, however, I felt something strange in my pocket, and, with a frown, drew it out to see what it was. My head reeled and my heart jumped in terror at the sight of a hangman's noose dangling from my hand. Holmes stared, wide-eyed for a moment, before leaping up.

"Where on earth did that come from?" he almost shrieked with disgust.

"I...I haven't a clue!" I said, still staring, dumbstruck at the horrid thing, before realising that my flesh was actually in contact with it, and hastily dropping it to the ground. "Someone must have placed it in my pocket..."

"The fellow with the carriage!" Holmes cried, springing back towards the main street, but I pulled him back.

"Don't be ridiculous, Holmes, it could have been any one of the people we passed in that street! What on earth does it mean?"

"I would have thought that the meaning was quite obvious, Watson," Holmes said, gravely, peering down at the horrible piece of rope, and nudging it with his foot. "It is a message from our dear friends in the employ of that diabolical but extraordinary man. Apparently, Miss Winchester's time is short."

I felt sick to my very core.

"Holmes, this is terrible! Despicable! What in the name of God can we do?"

"There is only one person who can help up now, Watson," Holmes said, straightening up to his full, imposing height, and beginning to lead me away down Longford Street. "All our hopes lie with young Wiggins."

"Wiggins?" I was perplexed. "Holmes, how can Wiggins possibly be of use to us? We have no time to organise the Irregulars, you said yourself that Miss Winchester's time is short..."

"Very true, Watson, but I believe that Wiggins knows a great deal more about this matter than we do. Some days ago, I observed a pair of Miss Winchester's jewelled bracelets on the lad's wrist..."

"Her bracelets?" I frowned, deeply at Holmes, wondering if I had indeed heard him right. "What would Wiggins be doing with a pair of Miss Winchester's bracelets?"

"They were payment, of course," Holmes said with a slight grin. "Unless I am very much mistaken, Miss Winchester has been conducting some investigations of her own." Then he muttered under his breath, as though hoping that I would not hear, "Perhaps she _does _have some natural ability after all."


	6. Chapter 5

**Note from Agatha: I WILL update more frequently, I promise! ;)**

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><p><strong>From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:<strong>

**9:45pm**

"...And this is the library."

I hesitantly followed my captor in to a large, magnificent room, its towering walls lined with hundreds of handsome books, bound beautifully in jewel-coloured leathers. It seemed to have been decorated in the style of some grand cathedral or monastery library, with a cavernous, impressively domed ceiling, held up by curving, elegantly carved walnut beams which were gilded with glimmering gold. The ceiling itself was painted a brilliant lapis lazuli blue, scattered with golden stars, and in the very centre of it hung a great, ancient chandelier of scrolling bronze, casting a soft, flickering half-light over everything, and intensifying the rich colours until they seemed vivid beyond belief. I walked forward under the star-spangled ceiling, and looked about me at my seemingly dream-like surroundings. Professor Moriarty's life of corruption had clearly brought him much wealth (and the more I looked at that wealth, the more eager I became to see it all come tumbling down around his ears, and burnt to ashes before his eyes.)

Many strange potted plants were scattered about the room, plants which I had never seen before, and which were labelled with bizarre names – One particularly odd looking specimen had a bud or flower shaped rather gruesomely like a pair of jaws, lined with sharp, needle-like teeth, and bore a label which called it a _'Dionaea Muscipula (Venus Fly Trap.)' _A priceless painting was hung here and there (most of them from the Renaissance period,) and a few glass-fronted cabinets in the room displayed jewelled Indian daggers, Chinese porcelain, ivory ornaments from the African colonies of the British Empire, and a few things which looked, rather disturbingly, like small, mummified human heads. I shuddered, and turned away, but found myself looking at something even more frightening and grotesque. In the middle of the room, stood before a truly enormous inglenook fireplace, was a large writing desk, and, just beside the desk, sat on a golden perch, was a huge, hideous, dusky brown and ashen grey dappled, live vulture. Its, small, bald, white head bobbed, curiously about on its serpentine neck, observing the room with keen, jet black eyes, and shuffling its claw-like feet restlessly on its perch. Seeing my look of horror, Moriarty smiled, ghoulishly, and approached the bird with a low laugh.

"Oh, there's no need to be frightened, my dear," he said, stroking the creature's feathers as though it were a pet cat. "Josephus here is quite harmless."

Here he took a red cloth bag that he had hanging on his belt, reached inside it, and took out (much to my disgust,) a small piece of raw meat, perhaps venison. The vulture eagerly rustled its huge wings, and snatched the meat in its hooked beak, devouring it almost in one swallow. I remembered how I had earlier compared Moriarty to a vulture, and I could see now that I was right. There was a disturbing resemblance between him and his gruesome pet.

"Perhaps you'd like to pet him?" the Professor asked, conversationally, but I kept as far away from the awful bird as I could. With a shrug, Moriarty gave the vulture's feathers one last, affectionate stroke, and then went over to the desk. I stood, patiently for a moment while he searched through the drawers, then thought that I had better demand something.

"Why did you take me away from Baker Street?" I said.

Bending over a drawer, Moriarty smiled, wickedly, and looked up at me.

"Oh, my dear Miss Winchester," he began, smoothly; "I would have thought that was quite obvious."

The hairs bristled on the back of my neck, not only because of his wolfish, staring eyes, but also because the way in which he had spoken disturbingly reminded me of Holmes.

"Do you want to hold me hostage?" I said, keeping my nerve, and folding my arms, resiliently. "Do you think that Holmes will drop whatever case he has on you in order to get me back?"

I said this with a certain amount of scorn, which Moriarty evidently detected, as he came around to the other side of the desk and smiled at me, holding something which he had retrieved from the desk drawer (It was square, that much I could tell, but it was covered with a piece of black velvet, so I could not tell what it was.)

"I can see that _you_ don't," he remarked, still observing me, curiously. "You seem to be under the impression that Holmes has no emotional attachment to you whatsoever. Indeed, you probably believe that has no emotional attachments at all, is that so?"

Conflicted, I stayed silent. Though I knew that what Moriarty had said was close enough to the truth (close enough because I believed that Holmes, rather than not _feeling_ emotional bonds, simply avoided them,) I did not want to confirm Holmes to be a cold and indifferent human being (Though I am sure he would not have been offended by such a suggestion.) Seeing me hesitate, Moriarty smirked slightly, his black eyes glistening like a snake's, and looked down at the covered object in his hands.

"I see that you are not, as yet, completely devoted to him, like that dog Watson," he said, offering the mysterious item to me. "Well, that _is_ a blessing. But I am afraid that it still may not save you from him..."

I frowned, deeply, but still refused to touch the object concealed under the black velvet cloth.

"What do you mean?"

Wordlessly, and without taking his eyes from mine, Moriarty removed the velvet covering the object in his hands. It was a broad, leather-bound book – A book of photographs, in fact.

"I have collected these over the years," he said, opening the book, and showing me the contents; "Ever since Mr. Holmes first came to my attention. He is a rather difficult man to gather information on, it seems he has attempted to erase his past – And with good reason...You see this pretty young lady here?"

I followed his finger, and looked at a portrait of a regal, dark-haired girl, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, and wearing a style of dress and hair that looked about twenty-five years old, with a cocker spaniel at her heals.

"That is Mr. Holmes's cousin, Miss Arabella Holmes," Moriarty explained, while I looked, perplexed at the picture. "She was the only daughter of Mr. Roderick Holmes, the younger brother of our Mr. Sherlock Holmes's father. At some time, the two brothers arranged that their children should be married to each other when they came of age. The children accepted the arrangement, and seemed to become genuinely devoted to each other." I repressed a shudder at the ghoulish smile of delight that crossed Moriarty's face, the sort of smile that exults in the pain of others. "However, Arabella soon found herself in love with another young boy whom she loved more than her betrothed, but whom she could not marry. She was distraught, and felt trapped in her engagement with her cousin...So she drowned herself."

The most horrific sensation stole over me, and I found that I was frozen to the spot, and could not say a word. I simply lifted my eyes to Moriarty's triumphant face, and felt a deep sensation of dread as he turned a page of the album.

"Little Nathaniel St. Clare, a young playmate of Mr. Holmes and his brother Mycroft. Died at the age of nine. Poisoned. He accidently ate some deadly herbs that Mr. Holmes had gathered and left in his room."

Another turn of the page.

"Jonathan Lucas Hill, pictured here with Mr. Holmes and a Mr. Victor Trevor. One of Mr. Holmes's only friends in his years at university, and tragically stabbed to death whilst trying to defend his friend from some roughians he had annoyed in the streets."

I could feel the colour slowly draining from my face, but seemed powerless to act as Moriarty once again turned a page of the miserable album.

"And finally, Mrs. Elizabeth Holmes, nee. Valentine. One of five extraordinarily beautiful sisters..."

"Holmes's mother," I managed to whisper, in a small, trembling voice. Moriarty's smile was diabolical.

"Yes," he said, in a voice that oozed fiendish satisfaction. "An exceptional beauty, as you can see, but this was taken on the cusp of her marriage to Mr. Sherrinford Holmes. Sad to say, her beauty declined soon afterwards; that is to say, after she gave birth to her brat of a younger son."

Something stirred within me, and I looked up at Moriarty as he continued to gaze coldly, blackly, and smugly at the photograph of Holmes's poor, deceased mother – My grandmother's sister;

"He was always pestering her as an infant, I've discovered. Always wanting, always needing, never content to just stay where he was told. His father tried to beat some sense in to the boy, but it was no use. He was a little wretch, a bad omen wherever he went. His nature began to tell on her nerves, and when he chose to disobey his father and pursue these childish detective games of his, it shamed her for life. She died a broken woman, dear lady. Sad...Very sad..."

But Moriarty's face was far from sad. It was absolutely brimming with fiendish glee. My entire being seemed encased in ice, and I watched, silently as he looked at me, his dark eyes adopting an insincere expression of soft sympathy.

"You see, my dear girl, Sherlock Holmes _can _become emotionally attached to others," he said, earnestly; "And I believe that he has grown very much attached to you. _That _is why I have brought you here, Miss Winchester. To warn you. Look at all these others!" He gestured to his book of gruesome photographs, photographs of the dead that he had raked from Holmes's bleak and tragic past. "He loved them all, in his own twisted way, and his love brought them nothing but sorrow, pain, and death. Don't you see? You are not safe with him! Goodness knows he has endangered the life of that poor doctor of his numerous times..." A grey, shrivelled hand suddenly approached my face, and I felt its leathery touch on my cheek. "...And I would so hate for him to destroy so lovely a thing as you, Miss Winchester..."

Whether it was the disgust or the anger that ignited the fire in my veins, I could not tell, but it happened in an instant. I lashed out, hurling the book of photographs across the room, and striking Moriarty's gaunt face with the back of my hand. As soon as my hand struck, however, I realised that I had made a grave mistake. I turned on my heel, and flew towards the library door, my heart pounding in my chest, but he was as quick as a demon. I felt his claw-like fingers grab at my hair, and yank me, fiercely back, and his other hand closed over my shoulder like a steel vice. That previously amiable, charming face was now contorted with fury, the lips drawn savagely tight, and the eyes blazing with all the fires of hell. He glared at me for a moment as though he'd bite me, and his head moved peculiarly from side to side, like a curious lizard.

"Let me show you something," he growled like a wolf.

I was tugged, harshly across the room (past the protesting, flapping wings of the startled vulture, Josephus,) to a corner that was mostly covered by a red velvet curtain, adorned with a gold tassel. Still holding me, painfully by my hair, Moriarty flung the curtain aside to reveal a large, beautiful, but strange object, glowing brilliant gold, and with a dozen other vibrant colours (Red, blue, green, orange, black...) It was shaped rather like an upright standing man, and actually had an elegant face painted on its front, with wide, blue and white eyes. It reminded me, rather ominously, of a coffin.

"This is a sarcophagus," Moriarty hissed in my ear, giving me a violent shake. "It's a replica I had made of one recently found in Egypt. The old Egyptian kings would be buried in these vessels along with spells and amulets, to help them reach the eternal afterlife. But the Egyptians also had a wide variety of nasty punishments for people who did wrong in their lives. They would bury them alive, so that they would die without proper burial, and their soul would never reach the Hereafter..."

Then, with a fierce wrench of his long, thin arm, he pulled me back, and thrust me forwards in to the darkness of the cavernous sarcophagus, sealing me inside like a rat trapped in a box.


	7. Chapter 6

**Note from Agatha: Okay, no I didn't live up to my promise to update faster, but look, I made this chapter extra long for you! :D**

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><p><strong>From the journal of Dr. John Watson:<strong>

**9:30pm**

We made haste down to the docks, and delved in amongst the black sea of mud-caked, ramshackle houses that lined the shores, the squalid abodes of steel workers and fishermen. Night always hangs heavily around the London dockyards, and as we hurried through the rick darkness, I stumbled several times on mislaid crates and barrels, and heard Holmes's boots crashing through rubbish on the path ahead. He, however, was much more used to negotiating London's threading streets and alleyways than I was, and where I would have been completely lost in the dim, misted moonlight that gently lit our way, he charged ahead with as much certainty as if it had been daylight. Finally, we came to one of the larger houses on the outskirts of the dockyards (Though this should under no circumstances be interpreted as a sign that it was luxurious.) The thatched roof looked as though it had been mended many times, and the short, crumbling chimney smoked thickly. Whoever lived in the hut was clearly in the business of making charcoal, as black and grey heaps of the substance were piled up around the front door, with a woodcutter's axe protruding from one particularly dense batch, and the windows looked as though they had seen much smoke and soot.

"I still have my suspicions about that fellow, Watson," Holmes muttered, stubbornly, as he knocked at the obviously homemade front door with the horseshoe that had been nailed to it as a knocker. "He was in the right place at the right time, and the fact that that...that rope appeared in your pocket not a minute after he had gone is more than coincidence..."

I opened my mouth to reply, but was cut off by the booming voice of a large dog coming from inside the house.

"You mustn't excite yourself, Holmes," I protested, after we had both grown accustomed to the rather threatening sound of the barking. "I'm not at all happy about your condition, and you must admit that your judgement is clouded due to your franticness to find Miss Winchester."

On reflection, I will admit that 'franticness' may have been a deliberately provocative word, and I am sure that Holmes would have protested, had the door not then opened a fraction. The light of a large, cheery fire spilled out on to the mud and earth, and an enormous, dark hairy shape tried to force itself in to the gap of the opening door.

"Fergus! Get back!" a gruff voice ordered. "Hullo, Mr. 'olmes. Is that you?"

"It is I, Mr. Wiggins," Holmes said, politely lifting his hat. "Might we have a word with your son? It is rather urgent."

The voice (I could not see the face of the speaker, for the strong light coming from within the house cast a shadow,) made a proud sound of approval.

"Got a job for 'im, 'ave yer? My, Mr. 'olmes, yer too kind, what with all y've done fer us...Come on in then, and yer friend."

The beast blocking the doorway was yanked back, and the door to the little house swung open, revealing a fairly large, almost circular sitting room, which, though poorly furnished, was warm, dry, and relatively clean. Rush matting covered the floor, and this in turn was covered by a large, tattered scarlet rug, which looked as though it had been scavenged from somewhere. The splintering wood of the walls was covered with decades worth of family photographs and silhouettes, some with frames and others simply with a nail driven through them to hold them in place. Other strange materials were also pinned to the walls, most likely scavenged objects which had been deemed worthy of keeping – Rusted horseshoes, cracked and dirty mirrors, broken old shoes, tin cans and green glass bottles hanging on lengths of twine, scraps of leather, torn ancient books, and even a one-armed china doll, which had been strung up by the back of its lacy gown. There was very little furniture in the room, the most noticeable piece of which was an enormous oak sideboard (probably a family heirloom,) sporting a large collection of dirty, chipped, blue and white china. There was also a handmade table (the wood was rather unevenly cut,) with a few wicker dining chairs scattered around it. They too looked as though they had been woven by hand.

The only other piece of furniture in the room was a large, tattered armchair, which sat drawn up next to the wonderful fire that burned in the old brick fireplace. Bundled up in the armchair in cocoon of colourful, knitted blankets, was a woman of about forty, with a rather square, drawn, pale face, small dark eyes, and long, chestnut brown hair, her gaze directed to the very young child that sat curled up in her lap, the very image of her in every way. Close by, sitting cross-legged on the floor, were two brown-haired boys of about seven (twins by the look of them,) wearing leather jerkins with no shirts, and staging a mock battle between a carved wooden horse and a toy soldier. A thin, copper-haired girl of about sixteen also sat near the fire, perched rather uncomfortably on an upturned wooden crate and cushion which served as a stool, and working on a pair of red rag curtains (the material of which looked suspiciously similar to that of the rug,) which lay across her lap.

The entire party looked up as we were ushered inside by our host, a strikingly large man in a filthy green coat, with flame red hair and a coarse beard.

"Now then, gents," he began in a gruff voice, soothing the excitable Irish Wolfhound at his side with a few pats; "What can I do fer...Theresa!" he barked suddenly at the young girl by the fire. "Pick up that darnin', and take it somewhere else so that Mr. 'olmes can sit down!"

The girl nearly leapt out of her skin, and quickly gathered up her needle and thread. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes flinch.

"Don't be too harsh to the girl, Mr. Wiggins, not on my account," he said, and I could tell that he was thinking of Miss Winchester. "My companion and I will not be intruding on you for very long, and I prefer to stand."

"Yer always too hard on 'em, George," a thin, reedy voice said, chidingly from the armchair. "Just because Georgie brings home his own money, it don't mean the rest of 'em are useless."

I looked over at the woman in the armchair, and beheld for the first time the true sickliness of her pallor.

"Madam?" I said as I approached her; "Are you unwell?"

"Ah," the fellow Wiggins suddenly caught me by the arm. "Yer that Dr. Watson, aren't yer? Sorry, sir, we can't afford no doctor's 'elp..."

"Not to worry, Mr. Wiggins, I shall deal with any fees that Dr. Watson may have," Holmes said, removing the man's hand from my arm. "Consider it payment for your son's help with our enquiry. Where is he?"

"I'll just fetch 'im for yer, Mr. 'olmes. Georgie!"

As Mr. Wiggins disappeared in to the next room (by the look of it the only other room in the house,) I knelt down beside Mrs. Wiggins's armchair, and smiled at the little girl in her lap.

"Hello there," I said in a kindly way, as the child nestled, nervously up to her mother's breast.

"Hannah's been ill too, Dr. Watson," the girl Theresa said, quietly shuffling forwards. "Mama's the only one who can get 'er to feed and bath, so she's always got 'er at 'er apron strings. Do you think Mama's got whatever she got?"

"How long ago was Hannah ill, Theresa?" I asked, as I unsuccessfully tried to persuade the little girl out of her mother's arms, so that I could examine her.

"About three weeks ago, Doctor," Mrs. Wiggins answered for her daughter. "It weren't too bad, just a cough n' a sneeze, n' a bit of a rash, the worst of it's gone now."

"But your symptoms seem to be a little more severe," I said, noticing the sweat that glistened on the lady's forehead. "It is rather a cause for concern, Mrs. Wiggins. Now, now, Hannah was it? There's nothing to be afraid of – Just hop down here for a moment so that I can..."

The toddler gave a protesting wail as I attempted to lift her down to the floor, and clutched at her mother's blankets.

"S' alrigh', Dr. Watson," Wiggins said, as the tall, gangly, orange-haired boy suddenly came sweeping in to the middle of the sitting room; "I'll fix 'er."

He reached in to his pocket, and pulled out a brand new baby's rattle, the bluest, shiniest little thing I had ever seen. I saw the child's eyes lock on to it in fascination, and within a few seconds she was grinning, cheerfully, and taking her new plaything over to a quiet corner.

"Georgie, wherever did you get that?" Mrs. Wiggins asked, almost suspiciously.

"Ah, don't fret, Mam," Wiggins said with a wave of his hand. "I bough' it up sharp from that fella in the Square. Miss Winches'er's tom went fer a fare amoun', y'know."

"Atten hut, Wiggins!" Holmes said, sharply, at which Wiggins quickly leapt to attention. "Something very important has arisen. A great deal is at stake. You must answer every question that I ask you fully and honestly, is that clear?"

"Cer'ainly, sir," Wiggins said with a well-practiced salute.

"Very good. Now, you say you acquired some jewellery from Miss Winchester. When was this?"

"Yes, sir. Wos abou' three days ago it wos, sir."

"And what did she give you the jewellery for?"

"She 'ad a job fer me, sir. Wan'ed me t' follow this bloke around who she said wos watchin' Baker Street – Your place."

I looked up at Holmes, startled, but he didn't seem much surprised. Now that I thought about the matter, Miss Winchester _had _seemed especially watchful lately. I remembered her staring, curiously down the street that day that Holmes had attempted to hurl himself out of the window, as though she were searching for something. Oh, _why _had I not seen her distress?

"And this man who was watching our rooms, did you find him?" Holmes demanded of Wiggins. "What did he look like?"

"He wasn't a short, white-haired elderly man in a black buttoned cloak, was he?" I asked, suddenly concerned that Holmes had been right about the fellow with the carriage after all.

"No, sir, 'e was pre'y tall, 'e wos," Wiggins said, indicating the man's height with an up-stretched arm. " 'e 'ad dark 'air, I fink – Couldn't see much ov 'im cos 'e was wearin' that bloomin' 'at n' scarf the 'ole time. Covered 'is face."

"You say you followed him," Holmes said, leaning in, intensely. "Where did he go?"

"Some inn, Mr. 'olmes," Wiggins said, shifting as though from an unpleasant memory. "Righ' grim place it wos, in Soho. _The 'angman's Tree_, it wos called."

A synchronised chill seemed to travel down the spines of both myself and Holmes, and we both looked at each other in terror.

"_Hangman's Tree_," Holmes said, his face becoming composed again in an instant, but I had not failed to spot the brief look of horrified realisation that had flitted across it. "You're certain of that, Wiggins?"

"Oh, cer'ain, Mr. 'olmes," Wiggins said, pressing his cap to his heart. "On me life."

"Very good. Was there anything else that you learned on this little expedition that Miss Winchester sent you on?"

"Yes, sir. A funny name. Miss Winches'er thought it wos prob'ly the bloke's employer."

"Did she, now?" Holmes's eyes glistened with delight. "And what was this name, Wiggins? Can you remember it?"

"It wos a tricky one, sir. Moriar'y. Moriar-_ty_..."

Just then, there was an eager knocking at the front door, and the great Irish Wolfhound bounded up from the spot where it lay sprawled on the rush matting, and galloped over in a frenzy of deep, excitable barks.

"Git down there, Fergus, git down!" Wiggins said, darting across to the front door, and attempting to wrestle with the huge dog. Meanwhile, Holmes came across to where I sat, examining the lad's mother.

"Well, Doctor?" he asked, curiously. "Your verdict?"

I lifted Mrs. Wiggins's right hand, and showed Holmes the dusting of small, red pox that were beginning to appear on the back of it.

"Chickenpox, Holmes," I said, decisively. "Chickenpox. Your daughter must have caught the disease and passed it on to you, Mrs. Wiggins. I shouldn't worry about your other children, the disease is quite minor to people of their age, and your daughter has passed her contagious period. An adult case of chickenpox, however, is rather more severe..."

"Hullo, Jim."

The room turned as Wiggins ushered a thin, pale young man in to the house, his dark eyes wide and frightened, and his face bearing a rather nasty set of red marks, like the scratches left my human fingernails.

"Jim!" the girl Theresa suddenly leapt up in delight, and raced over to the young man. "Where've you been 'iding? What's 'appened to your face?"

"It's nothin', Theresa, nothin', don't make a fuss," the young man said, covering his wounded cheek with one hand, and brushing the fingers of his sweetheart with the other. "I just got in t' a bit of a scrap when I was out workin', that's all. Anyway, 'ow's...?"

It was a strange thing, but as the young lad looked over and saw Holmes and I sitting by the fire, I could have sworn that his face grew a shade paler, and his eyes became even more round with fright.

"Come to check on me, Jim?" Mrs. Wiggins said with a sweet smile. "Yer a thoughtful boy, I've always thought that. Mr. 'olmes, Dr. Watson, this is Jim Perkins, our Theresa's young man."

Holmes strode across the room, and shook hands with the young man, who still appeared to stare at him in a rather awestruck way (I assumed that he had either recognised my colleague, or was just astounded by Holmes's rather striking appearance and demeanour, which people very often were.)

"How do you do, Mr. Perkins?" Holmes said, graciously, flicking something from the lad's sleeve as he peered at the scars on his face. "That really does look rather nasty, you may wish to have it attended. What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

"Yes, I think he should," I said, straightening up and looking at the deep, bloody scratches on the young man's pale face. "An open wound like that might lead to an infection. I wouldn't suggest you stay here, Mr. Perkins, Mrs. Wiggins is entering the highly contagious phase of the Chickenpox disease, and with a serious cut like that..."

" 'Course," the young Perkins said, retreating eagerly back to the door; " 'Course, 'course...Don't fret Theresa, I'll meet you in a day or two. I've been earnin' extra recently. I'll be able t' take you somewhere, somewhere nice..."

"Yer won't be takin' 'er anywhere unless yer plannin' on marryin' 'er, boy!" Mr. Wiggins's gruff voice suddenly barked from the nearby doorway. "Look at you, gettin' in to brawls when yer meant t' be out workin'! Not one word! Theresa, _not one word! _Go on, out with yer! And don't come back until y've got summin t' show fer yerself!"

Holmes and I stood, uncomfortably in the middle of the room while Theresa sobbed, quietly against the wall, and the lad Perkins hastily made his exit. Mr. Wiggins grunted, and gave the Wolfhound at his side a heavy pat.

"Lout! Thinks 'e can buy us all with promises of money 'e never seems t' 'ave..."

" 'e's not _that _bad, Dad..." young Wiggins began, protestingly.

"Shut yer chops, boy! Now, 'ave you given Mr. 'olmes everythin' e's asked for?"

"Indeed he has, Mr. Wiggins," Holmes said, flicking a coin in the man's direction; "And it has all been most useful. Thank you very much for your time. Goodnight."

"Goodnight Mr. 'olmes, Dr. Watson."

"Mr. Wiggins," I said, hastily approaching the man; "Your wife has a case of the Chickenpox. Have you had the disease yourself?"

"Oh, yessir, 'ad it years ago, when I was only a boy."

"Good. You should not be at any risk then. I'll be back in a day or two to tend to your wife's condition, but in the meantime I would suggest plenty of rest, plenty of liquids, minimal contact with other people, and perhaps an oatmeal bath to treat the rash. Oh, and the blankets should be removed, they are only aggravating Mrs. Wiggins's fever."

"Thank yer very much, Doctor. Goodnight."

And so Holmes and I passed out through the front door, and were once again striding through the darkness of the shipyard. We walked for several minutes in silence, and it was only when we reached the burning light of a street lamp that I glanced across at Holmes and saw that he was grinning.

"Holmes?" I said with surprise. "What is it?"

"Many things, Watson, but mostly it is the name of this inn, _The Hangman's Tree. _You see what it means, don't you?"

"I can only see that that horrible thing I found in my pocket might have been a reference to it," I said, looking at him with curiosity and not a little alarm, "but I can hardly see why that would cause you delight."

"The rope was most certainly a reference to the inn, Watson, but more than that," Holmes said, grabbing hold of my arm, and turning me to face him, his grey eyes sparkling with eagerness; "It was a clue. A clue sent to us by our worthy opponent, who wishes to test my skills as a logician and lead us on a merry dance to find Miss Winchester. It is a game, Watson. The game is afoot!"


	8. Chapter 7

**Note from Agatha: Yes, chapter 7 is finally up! Updates will be coming more frequently now, as I have finally finished my application for university (Fingers crossed! :D ) Hope you enjoy.**

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><p><strong>From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:<strong>

**10:05pm**

The sarcophagus was at least three times my size, and the pounding of my fists on the metal lid reverberated around like the ringing of a great bell, and yet I still felt horrifically claustrophobic. Darkness suffocated me on all sides, and the coffin had a peculiar, new smell about it – musty, and with the tang of metal – but as my senses flared, and my imagination ran wild in the dark, the smell changed under my nose in to the smell of the dead, the inside of a decaying tomb, the centuries old dust that coated a pile of forgotten bones...

As the minutes passed, I began to scream hysterically, and resorted to throwing myself against the lid, trying to topple the massive casket, but to no avail. I had almost resolved to just collapse in a crying heap at the bottom of my small, horrid prison, when a strange calm stole over me, as though I had simply run out of tears, and I took in a great lungful of air, and allowed my senses to come back to me. I could not, after all, go on crying forever. Weeping and bashing around inside the metal coffin would do me no good, and if I continued to scream so hysterically I would either harm myself, or suffocate from wasting my air..._Air. _It suddenly struck me that a casket such as this should have been air-tight, and yet I did not feel stifled and hot, nor was I struggling for breath. Also, it seemed to me that Moriarty did not wish to do me any harm (not yet at any rate,) and his hurling me in to the gruesome sarcophagus was most likely just an enraged attempt to scare and punish me. He would certainly not have left me locked inside an air-tight chamber. I was useful to him...Even _pleasing _to him...

I rocked backwards on to my heels, and leaned against the cool, smooth back of the sarcophagus, brushing the tears from my sore, wet cheeks. I could feel my face burning with angry embarrassment in the dark, and I scolded myself for being so childish and giving way to fear. I then peered ahead of me in to the black, and saw what I was looking for – The tiny chink of light that indicated a gap just under the lid of the sarcophagus. Reaching my hands out in front of me, I felt, blindly along the inside of the coffin lid, until my fingers came across what seemed to be a very modern lock mechanism (Moriarty's Ancient Egyptian 'replica' had evidently had a few additions made to it.) Carefully, my fingertips plucked and scrabbled at the edges of the many cogs that I could feel that made up the mechanism, attempting (though without much success,) to turn them from the inside, and unlock the sarcophagus. I strained and strained at the cogs until I felt that my fingers would snap, but eventually, there was a loud, brief grating sound, and I realised that I had made the lock move an inch. Twisting with all my might, I finally managed the turn the particular cog in my grasp all the way around, and the heavy lock bolted back out of place with a loud, satisfying clank. With a thrill of joy, I heaved the lid of the sarcophagus open, and cautiously stepped out in to the remarkably fresh-feeling library, my eyes watering as they once again saw light.

The library was completely empty (even the hideous vulture was gone from its perch,) and the hallway without was silent. The album of photographs that I had flung across the room had been placed back on the desk, and I felt an even greater sense of anticipation as I approached it than I had before, seeing Moriarty slowly lifting the cover. There were many other pictures encased in the book, not all of them, I was rather chilled to see, relating to Holmes. There were several others that showed a quite different looking family – A sweet, warm-faced lady holding a young baby in her arms; two boys of similar ages sitting on their father's knee; a boy (quite possibly one of the boys from the previous photograph, but quite a few years older,) proudly smiling and holding up the carcass of a mallard, evidently a trophy that he had shot down himself with the shotgun that was slung over his shoulder. An unsettling chill shot down my spine as I recognised the distinctive (albeit moustacheless,) face of John Watson in its youth. But my feet were nearly swept from underneath me when I turned a page to see the very last set of pictures in the book.

Back home on my father's ranch in Virginia, there had been a large, elegantly framed portrait on the dining room wall, a photograph of my father, my mother, my grandfather and grandmother (the youngest sister of Holmes's mother,) all gathered around Father's most prized horse, Lightning Strike, as a foal. A small copy of this portrait had been fixed in to the back of Moriarty's album, but how on earth he had come by it, I had not the faintest idea. The portrait had been left behind on the ranch in Virginia when my father had sold it (Rowena had always hated to see my mother's face hanging on the wall,) and I had not seen it for months. There were also copies of the images that I knew my father and Rowena had had placed in love tokens for each other, and finally a photograph of a little girl, perhaps two years old, with tight, light-coloured curls, and wearing a velvet dress and polished shoes, sitting astride a large, incredibly life-like rocking horse. This, I knew, was myself.

I did not care to think how long Moriarty had had these pictures for, and forced the thought to the back of my mind. Realising that I would surely be caught if I stood there for a moment longer, I moved away from the desk, but then, a thought occurred to me. I went back to the album, and tore the photograph of my father, mother, and grandparents from the last page, tucking it under my corset for safekeeping. It was rightfully mine, after all. Then, as an afterthought, I leafed back through the book to the picture of Holmes's mother, Elizabeth, and removed that as well. As I did so, there came a strange squawk from above me, and I looked up to see the vulture Josephus perched on the bronze chandelier, angrily flapping his massive wings, and making the chandelier swing to and fro. I glared up at the creature, and flashed him a hand gesture that I had once seen one of our stablehands use to another, and which absolutely infuriated Rowena.

Closing the book, I cautiously moved across the library (keeping a wary eye on the watching Josephus as I did so,) and peered out of the door, glancing up and down the hallway for any sign of Feng or the butler Albert, or, even worse, Moriarty himself. All was quiet, and I carefully stepped out in to the open, and shut the library door behind me, muttering a parting curse to that hideous vulture. It was clear to me that I had to escape, but first I wanted to gather as much information as I could about this Professor Moriarty, so that I could prepare Holmes against him. As I made my way back in the direction of Moriarty's study, however, his words as he had shown me those photographs of Holmes's tragic past came drifting back to me, and, for the first time, I took in their meaning. Of course, I did not believe for one moment that he had any genuine concern for my safety (this was clearly all down to some bitter rivalry that he felt against Holmes,) but that did not mean that his sentiments were untrue.

Holmes was, at the very best, unpredictable. I had nearly died twice since I had known him, and I could not forget that moment just a few days before when he had savagely launched himself at me, after I had done nothing less than save his life by grabbing him as he leapt from a window. And with each careless jibe that he threw in my direction, with each cold and contemptuous sneer, and with his increasingly infuriating indifference towards my interest in both him and his work, I felt the pain cut a little deeper, and my despair and disappointment grow a little stronger. Somehow, I had developed an affection for him, and had grown to love him as my guardian, and the only true family that I had left in the world, which made his utter disregard for me all the more galling. And now Moriarty was telling me that he _did _care for me after all, that this was all I should expect by way of an expression of affection and acceptance, and it seemed that the very thing which I had been yearning for so much in the past few weeks – Holmes's love and approval – was now something that I hated and wanted nothing to do with.

It was maddening! But indeed, had he not driven all those that had loved him quite mad? His betrothed, who had drowned herself, his friend, who had thrust himself in to the blade of a knife to defend him, his mother, who had despaired at his nature and worried herself to death, and even poor Watson, who he sometimes seemed to treat no better than a dog, and who yet lived with him and stood by him in spite of any danger...And all for what? This cold, cruel indifference that was apparently all Holmes had to show by way of affection? And the most maddening thing of all seemed to be that I was _willing to accept that, _willing to be treated in such a way if it meant that I could stay with Holmes. What was to become of me if I went on apparently being forced to love someone that I hated so like this?

"In a house by the river you say, Albert?"

I jumped as I realised that I had come level with Moriarty's door, and stepped to the side to shelter behind one of the black marble panthers that flanked either side of it so that I could listen;

"Yes, sir. Perkins was visiting a young lady friend of his at the time. He says that her brother is one of Mr. Holmes's agents that he uses to scour the streets."

"Ah, I see!" Moriarty's voice was gleeful. "So he _is _following the scent! Excellent! When was this, Albert?"

"About half an hour ago, sir."

"Good, good...He should be at _The Hangman's Tree _fairly soon then. You did make sure that they received the clue, didn't you Albert?"

"Yes, sir. I placed it in Dr. Watson's pocket."

"And they did not suspect..?"

"Mr. Holmes was suspicious, sir, he opened up the carriage. But it was before the time, there was nothing for him to find."

"So they are not aware that..?"

"I do not believe so, sir."

"Excellent. That should give us plenty of time. Well, if you are ready with the tea, Albert, I believe our young lady has been locked up for quite long enough..."

My heart jolted, sickeningly, and I raced away from the study, and dived in to the first room that I came across – The Music Room.

I had seen it previously on the extensive tour that Moriarty had given me of his almost catacomb-like lair, and it was quite something to behold. Somewhat smaller than the other rooms, it was still no less luxuriously decorated, and had an almost box-like feel to it, with its walls, ceiling, and even doors papered with winding, twisting golden dragons on a fiery scarlet background, and the carpet bearing the same colours and design, as though it had been specially made for that room. It was a peculiar optical effect, and I felt as if I had somehow become encased in a great, gold and scarlet cube from which there was no escape. On my entrance, a gramophone in the corner somehow began playing by itself, and the first movement of Beethoven's great Moonlight Sonata gradually filled the room. A huge, magnificent golden harp was placed against the far wall, with an unusually shaped chair carved of red wood and upholstered with moss green velvet sat beside it, whilst against the next wall (the one immediately to my right,) taking up the most amount of space in the room, was the most striking instrument I had ever seen.

It appeared to be a barrel organ of some kind, with the brass pipes protruding from the top, and two sets of keys on opposing sides of the instrument, but it was so utterly different from other barrel organs that I had seen in churches and the like that I was almost convinced that it was a completely newly invented instrument altogether. The main body of it seemed carved out of mother-of-pearl or pink marble, while the keys – beautiful things that they were – were not the usual ivory, but made out of semi-precious stones, such as jade, amethyst, moonstone, and rose quartz. I was fascinated by this bizarre but beautiful instrument, and, quite forgetting about Moriarty and his accomplices, who were now no doubt scouring the halls in search of me, I simply could not resist pressing a few of the keys to see what on earth this strange contraption sounded like...

Nothing happened. I tried again (my piano playing was very limited at the time, and is now non-existent, but I was quite certain that this was generally how one produced sound from such a thing,) and still the instrument was silent. In a last attempt, I decided to try a very loud, dramatic chord, to see if that would produce any response from the thing, and slammed by fingertips, firmly against the keys.

An immense sound, like the deep, dulcet tones of an organ when it shakes the very rafters of a cathedral, exploded in the room, and I screamed aloud as a trap door suddenly opened beneath my feet, and I was sent plunging through it in to darkness.

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><p><strong>P.s. Anyone who is wondering why Moriarty's lair is so weird, it's based on a dream I had...That's why.<strong>


	9. Chapter 8

**Note from Agatha: Hey! It's been a while, I know :D Got caught up reading the brand spanking new Sherlock Holmes book from Anthony Horowitz ('The House of Silk.') Really great, I recommend it (though he's still no Arthur Conan Doyle.)**

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><p><strong>From the journal of Dr. John Watson:<strong>

**10:15pm**

I was beginning to fear that we would never find _The Hangman's Tree. _Soho is a difficult enough place to navigate even in the light of day – the long, winding labyrinths of alleyways seem to stretch on forever, and the crumbling walls of brick and stone, and the ramshackle, slate rooftops reach so high that they seem to shut out the sky above – and even Holmes's great knowledge of London was tested in the thick smog and almost unnatural darkness that permanently seems to enshroud that most dismal corner of our capital. We charged, blindly through the black streets, passing groups of drunkenly slurring people that we could not see, guided solely by the squares of harsh yellow light that broke through the smog from private dwellings and raucous pubs, and I had an uneasy feeling in the depth of me that told me we were rats, scuttling in to the very centre of a trap. Occasionally, Holmes would make a harsh grunting sound up ahead, as of a frustrated hunting dog when it loses the scent of its quarry, and would take off, wildly in another direction, sometimes moving so quickly that I almost lost sight of him. I was not at all certain about him. He was frail – worse still, he was emotionally unsettled – and I was not used to dealing with him when he was in such a state. He could be remarkably difficult to manage at the best of times, and I was afraid that if I could not reason with him and keep him in check, he would come to some harm (either at the hands of another, or through his own, reckless actions.)

Suddenly, Holmes swerved around another corner – one that had been almost invisible to me from my position a few feet further back in the smog – and my heart lurched as his tall figure vanished seemingly before my very eyes.

"Holmes!" I called, sharply to him, strangely reminding myself of my father calling to my own, younger self, as my brother and I scampered about on the heath like the little imps that we were. I made for the corner, but suddenly heard a broken shriek at my side, and was sent tumbling to the ground as my knee (my bad knee, as it happened,) collided with something. I winced in pain as an assortment of metal objects crashed around me – old pewter cups and bits and pieces of silverware, and copper cooking pots that were blackened with much use – and was just picking myself up off of the cobbles, when I felt something like a cane come thudding down on to my back.

"You bloody brute!" a dry, rasping voice withered by age called out of the darkness, and I looked up to see a small, ancient old woman (indeed, she was very ancient – perhaps nearing a hundred years of age,) brandishing her walking stick at me. "After my scrap, are you? Come 'ere! Where are you?" She swung her stick, fiercely through the air, but thankfully missed by quite a long way.

"Madam," I said, reassuringly to her as I stood up, taking care to avoid the end of her stick; "Please, I'm so sorry...I'm afraid I couldn't see where I was going...This smog, you see..."

"No, I _don't _see!" the old woman grumbled, lifting the black shawl that was draped over her head, and I saw that her eyes were clouded with an eerie, milky whiteness. She was blinded by severe cataracts. "And as for any smog that may be about, well, I manage to find my way through the thickest, most relentless of smogs every day, my son! Do you see?"

"Yes, madam," I said, feeling shamed to my very core. "Please, accept my apologies. I can help you gather your possessions, if I may?"

"If you mean the scrap, then yes, you may," the old woman said, tossing the large wicker hamper that she carried abruptly in my direction. "But don't you be taking anything that isn't yours, you understand me? I may be blind, but I'm not simple!..."

The old crone continued to berate me in this fashion while I gathered up her various pots and pans in to the hamper, attracting the stares and jeers of a small group of adolescent boys in rags while I did so (The old woman, however, yelled some curse at them, and they fled.)

"There, I believe that's all of them," I said at last, pressing the hamper under the old woman's arm. She clutched it, firmly, and felt about, suspiciously inside, apparently checking that all her items were accounted for.

"Yes, that's everything," she said, in a much softer tone. "What an honest boy you are, Doctor. Here, take this for your trouble."

She tried to press something in to my hand, and I protested, but she insisted.

"Nay, it's the least I can do. You've been very kind to this old pile of bones. And who knows, you might need it later..."

She forced her gift, firmly in to the palm of my hand, and then shuffled away in to the smog, disappearing with a celerity that surprised me. It was only as I stood looking down at the unusual gift that she had given me (a cream paper envelope, sealed with an ornate M pressed in to rather beautiful gold sealing wax,) that I realised that I had never mentioned to her my occupation as a doctor. I looked, startled down the narrow street where she had gone, but there was no sign of her...

"W-Watson..."

The voice calling from the opposite direction was faint, and it was with a cold surge of horror that I suddenly remembered Holmes.

"_Holmes!" _I called, frantically in to the smog, and I ran as fast as my damned, protesting leg would allow me down the dark, shrouded street where I had seen him vanish. The warm, glowing lights of an inn fell on to the cobbles before me, and I heard my foot splash in a puddle of something that smelt suspiciously like spilt ale (It could have been worse, I reasoned.)

I found Holmes collapsed, stretched out on his side on the pavement before the inn door, groaning and cradling his middle, as though in agony.

"Holmes!" I said, desperately, falling on to my knees beside him, and getting close enough so that I could see the violent trembling of his limbs. "Holmes, what is it? Where's the pain?"

He gave a strangled gasp in reply, and I could see the colour starting to drain from his already pallid face. I removed by glove, and pressed a hand to his, cold, clammy neck, feeling the terrible rushing of his pulse as his system angrily demanded the cocaine it had grown dependent upon. Holmes felt my hand, and suddenly lashed out, barking at me to get away from him in a voice that I barely recognised. Just then, the inn door opened.

"Wos all this, then?" a middle-aged, portly gentleman with a ruddy face and black sideburns demanded of us. "Bleedin' 'ell, wos 'appened 'ere?"

"Please," I said, well aware of how desperate and grovelling I sounded; "My friend is extremely ill. I need assistance."

The gentleman (who I took to be the innkeeper,) looked down at Holmes in horror, then turned in the doorway.

"Will, 'arry!" he called in to the loud, smokey depths of the inn; "Give us an 'and, will yer?"

Two strong lads came rushing out on the pavement, and, with directions from the innkeeper, lifted Holmes from the ground, and carried him inside.

"What 'appened then, son?" the innkeeper asked, putting a thick, podgy arm around me, and ushering me over the threshold. "S'alright, y' can say what yer like in 'ere. What gets said in these walls, stays in these walls."

The heavy oak door slammed behind me, and I was suddenly caught in the midst of a thick silence. A multitude of haggard faces looked up from beer-soaked tables, their dark, rat like eyes peering out of the dense fog of grey tobacco smoke that was almost as bad as the smog outside. Fierce, ugly animal heads mounted on the paint-peeling walls startled me as they suddenly became visible through the swirling smoke, their glass eyes glinting like rubies, and their teeth sharp and white like arrow heads. Above the bar at the far end of the room there hung a dark, gruesome oil painting, depicting the scene of one of the old witch hunts, with the accused maids in their Puritan dresses hanging limp from the gallows next to a large oak tree. What's more, the room was unusually cold, which did not make it any more inviting.

"Leave it out fellas, leave it out," the innkeeper said, sternly to the assembled crowd. "This poor gent's just 'ad a rum shock, 'e 'as. Well, we'll soon fix yer mate up, don't you worry. Now," he began to lead me up the narrow walkway that snaked between the crowded tables, "what wos it that 'appened exactly, squire? Get jumped fer yer fine coats, did yer? Not one er my boys, I can assure you...No, they're a good old lot...Just a bit rough about the edges, is all...'ere, yer didn't get caught gettin' friendly, did yer? S'not safe doin' that out in the open, y'know, not even in these parts..."

"No!" I cried in disgust, my eyes transfixed by a man in an old sailors uniform with a wooden hand, who looked very much as though he has been buried alive and then been brought back up again.

"Oh, it's alright, y'know!" the innkeeper said with a friendly squeeze of my shoulder. "I've seen it all in my time, 'specially in 'ere..."

"I can assure you, he is nothing more than my colleague!" I protested, my face burning with embarrassment. "If you must know, my friend is recovering from...from substance abuse."

"Ah, been 'ittin' it 'ard at one of the opium dens, 'as 'e?" the innkeeper said with an understanding nod. "No bother, sir, no bother, we get it all passin' over this threshold, I can tell yer. Why, old Charlie over there's barely conscious these days, 'e knows more about the old poisons than any chemist or old nar-what's-its expert this side er the Thames. Y' can 'ave a word with 'im if yer like – Well, best 'ave a word with 'is brother Duncan actually, 'as I say 'e's barely conscious these days..."

"No thank you," I said, curtly, not bothering to correct the innkeeper as to Holmes's choice of substance. "What I would prefer is for my friend to be laid out in a quiet room somewhere so that I can examine him. I am a doctor."

A small amount of muttering started at one the nearby tables, which was silenced by an angry look from the talkative innkeeper.

"Certainly, sir, certainly. Will an' 'arry 'ave just taken 'im in t' the backroom there, be'ind the bar. 'e'll be comfortable, I can assure you. Now, might you like a drink, 'elp steady yer nerves a bit?"

"A glass of brandy for my friend, please," I said, deciding not to drink myself (It was best that I kept a clear head.) "Oh, and if you could tell me, I would very much like to know where we are? My friend and I were looking for a particular inn, you see, _The Hangman's Tree_..."

"Yer in it, son," the innkeeper said, offering me a pink, pudgy hand. "Landlord Emmanuel 'unter, the third, that is. At yer service."

I tried to repress an expression of surprise as I took Mr. Hunter's hand.

"How do you do, Mr. Hunter? If you will excuse me, I must just see to my friend..."

Before the gentleman could say another word, I barged in to the backroom of the inn to find Holmes sitting up on a small cot, his legs crossed, and casually examining his watch.

"_Holmes!" _I hissed, furiously, carefully shutting the door behind me. "That was an appalling performance!"

"I believe the word you are looking for, my dear Watson, is incomparable," said Holmes with a smile, pocketing his watch, and lounging back on the rickety little cot that the two young men had deposited him on. "We have gained successful access to _The Hangman's Tree _without even having to reveal our names. I will not be fooled in to thinking that this Moriarty has made the way easy for us. No doubt there were several out there huddled in their dark corners who had been instructed to kill us on sight."

As I approached the cot where he lay, I noticed the true sickliness of his pallor, and the uneasy trembling of his fingers as he locked them together.

"Holmes?" I said, slowly. "Are you quite sure that that was _all _an act outside the inn door just now?"

Before Holmes could reply, however (though I am not sure that he had any intention of replying,) the innkeeper Mr. Hunter bustled in with a dusty bottle of brandy and a bowl of some meaty broth on a wooden tray.

" 'ere you are, sirs," he said, cheerfully. "Brought yer some of the leftover broth from last night's dinner t' get yer friend's strength up. 'e's alright, is 'e?"

I looked back at the cot to see Holmes lying pale and limp, the very picture of unconscious weakness and sickness.

"I'll just see if I can bring him round," I said, struggling to keep down a sigh.

When Holmes had eventually conceded to end his charade, and allowed his eyelids to flutter open, and I had rather gleefully shovelled some of the disgusting looking broth down his throat, the two of us began a seemingly innocent conversation with our host, gently coaxing any information that we could out of him. To our dismay, he seemed to have very little.

"I've been 'ere all my life I 'ave, sir," Mr. Hunter prattled, having drunk most of the bottle of brandy himself at his own invitation. "Just like my father, an' 'is father before 'im. This tavern's been passed down in my family through the generations, an' it's always done a roarin' trade, it 'as..."

"And a very accommodating establishment it is too, Mr. Hunter," I said, struggling to remain polite while Holmes propped himself up on his elbow and openly yawned like a cat. "Very..._all-encompassing_...non-judgemental..."

The brandy glass paused at Mr. Hunter's lips, and he looked, suspiciously, through slightly misted, bloodshot eyes.

"Dunno what yer mean by that, sir," he said, a little haughtily. "I don't allow just anyone t' come traipsin' in 'ere. I won't 'ave any trouble in my establishment, no sir...!"

"I'm sure you are a gentleman with exceedingly high moral principles, Mr. Hunter," Holmes said, lifting his own glass of brandy to his nose, before putting it down again with a disapproving sniff. "A man with such young grandchildren would need to be."

Mr. Hunter twitched, then positively jumped in his seat as he took in Holmes's words, spilling much of his brandy over his striped shirt.

"Grandchildren, sir?" he stammered, looking almost terrified. Holmes shifted a little closer in his cot, and squinted at the man.

"Two grandchildren, and one daughter," he said, decisively. "Your wife passed away some years ago, so your daughter is the very pearl of your life, however you had no sons, which was disappointing for you, as you have just expressed great pride in your family's possession of this inn through the generations. You are also, I regret to say, not doing nearly as well in your trade as your father or grandfather before you." He held up his untouched glass of brandy. "Home-brewed brandy that smells distinctly of your unclean washtub will not attract the business you need, Mr. Hunter, even if it is all that you can afford. However, I know that it is your desire to leave this inn to your grandson, and I therefore do not blame you for accepting such an offer from Mr. Moriarty."

The innkeeper's ruddy, red face darkened to an astonishing purple colour, before blotches of pure white began to appear on it. The brandy glass dropped from his hand and shattered in to a hundred, glittering shards on the floor, but the man seemed completely unaware of the fact.

"_Professor _Moriarty," he said, in a trembling voice. " 'e likes t' be called _Professor _Moriarty...You're that Mr. 'olmes, aren't ya?"

"I am."

Mr. Hunter delved in to the pocket of his jerkin, and wiped his forehead with a spotted handkerchief, before standing up. He swayed, uncertainly on the spot, and I lunged towards him, but the gentleman put up his hand and kept me at bay, breathing deeply, slowly, and heavily. After taking a moment to gather himself, he moved across the room to a large chest that was stood in the corner.

" 'e wanted me t' give yer this," he said, lifting the heavy lid, and rummaging about for something that had obviously been well hidden inside. "Said I wasn't t' look inside it, not fer the world, it was fer your eyes only...Lord knows 'e didn't 'ave to tell me twice, sir...'e's already been t' my Mary's 'ouse, sent 'is brutes t' frighten 'er, threatened my little grandchildren...My James an' my Jenny...'ere it is."

He produced a small, ornate wooden box, rather like a treasure chest from a fairytale, or a prop in some lavish theatre spectacle of kings and queens – It was painted a deep, inky blue, trimmed with scrolling brass adornments, and bore a large, heavy, decorated padlock on its front.

"Don't open it in 'ere!" the fellow Hunter said, earnestly, thrusting the box in to Holmes's arms. "Whatever's in it, I don't wanna know...Just take the bloody thing, an' leave. No, not that way!" he said, grabbing my arm as I made for the door. "There's too many of 'em out there...Too many of _'is _lot...'e makes me entertain 'em, y'see, makes me turn a blind eye t' all the wicked things they do in exchange fer their business. I wouldn't do it, sir, if only I weren't so desperate! My little 'uns have gotta 'ave _somethin' _when I go! No, yer best off goin' out the back window. I think you can just about squeeze through, you an' yer friend 'ere. Go on, sir, quick, before they 'ere somethin'!..."

I struggled out of the back window after Holmes with a helping shove from Mr. Hunter, and found myself standing in the middle of a stinking stable yard, the wind whipping up and blowing the Soho smog away, to reveal the star-spangled sky above.

"An' sir!" Mr. Hunter called to Holmes. " 'e's afraid of you, 'e is! Lord knows I never saw 'im more riled by no one, not even the police! I don't know what all this is about, sir, but if you can get 'im...Well, you wouldn't be committin' a crime, is all I'll say!" And he slammed the window shut.

"Now what on earth is this?" I said, exasperatedly, carefully stepping over piles of horse manure to where Holmes stood with the mysterious box.

"Our next clue, Watson," Holmes said, almost cheerfully, looking down at the box in his arms with glittering eyes. "Our next stepping stone on this path that will lead us to Miss Winchester. Oh, I could not have wished for a more worthy adversary! Now, how best to open it?"

"We'll need the key to that lock..." I began, then suddenly remembered the envelope that the curious old blind woman had given me...The envelope with a letter M on the wax seal...

"Holmes, I think I have it!" I said, taking the envelope from my coat pocket, and tearing it open. Sure enough, it contained a large, brass key, etched with similar decoration to that on the elaborate padlock. A fleeting expression of astonishment flickered across Holmes's face.

"Watson, wherever did you obtain that?" he demanded, taking the key and examining it, closely.

"An old woman in the street, she gave it to me. It must have been another one of Moriarty's agents."

"Indeed," Holmes said, setting the box down on top of a nearby pile of crates, and still gazing, thoughtfully at the key; "It seems our quarry adores the idea of coming within a hair's breadth of us when we are least expecting him, taunting us and frustrating us in our attempts to catch him. The Almighty only knows what he is doing to poor Miss Winchester, Watson..."

I saw an expression of pain twist his features, but did not push him. He inhaled, deeply, and then turned to me, presenting the key in the palm of his hand.

"Let us see what message our _Professor _Moriarty has for us, then."

He fitted the key in to the padlock, and turned it, unfastening the lock. Even the wind seemed to cease whistling for a moment as Holmes cautiously lifted the lid of the box. Neither of us flinched at the sight of a human skull grinning up at us (I was a medical man, and Holmes had experimented with more bones and cadavers than even I had in my days as a medical student,) but I must admit that a cold shiver did run down my spine. Held between the skull's teeth was a piece of parchment with a gold ribbon attached to it, and Holmes gently took this between his thumb and forefinger, and prised it out. Written on the parchment, in gleaming gold ink, was a strange verse;

'_Return me to my marble bed_

_Amongst the yew trees' gloom,_

_And descend therein where no living feet tread_

_To deep and blackest doom.'_

"A verse of Poe's would have been better," Holmes commented, flippantly.

"But whatever does it mean, Holmes?" I asked, rather breathlessly, and with a strong sense of foreboding.

"I would have thought that that was rather obvious, Watson," Holmes said, replacing the note between the skull's glinting teeth, and closing the box lid. "We are to return our long expired friend here to his final resting place, and reunite him with the rest of his body. Our next clue is no doubt waiting somewhere in the most dismal depths of his tomb."

"But, Holmes," I said, despairingly, for I must confess that, ever since a terrifying and haunting experience that I suffered as a child, I have had an awful fear of graveyards; "How are we to know which cemetery to go to, and which tomb?"

"That information has been most graciously given to us by the esteemed Professor Moriarty, Watson," Holmes said, lifting the wooden box. "There is an inscription just beneath the padlock here..._'Lord Henry Erasmus Blackwood_,[2] _Highgate Cemetery, North London.'_" [3]

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><p>[2] Yep, that was a RDJ film reference. ;)<p>

[3] Thank you to the person who pointed out to me that Highgate Cemetery is in Highgate (duh!) NEAR Kensington, not in it.


	10. Chapter 9

**From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:**

**10:30pm**

I feel that I must have had some very strange dreams as I lay unconscious below the trap door, as for a while sleeping and waking seemed to be blurred together like the shades of a watercolour, and I awoke in a very slow, gradual fashion. At first, I was simply aware of being alive and in my body, with something warm, soft, and slightly damp underneath me, but was completely blind and deaf to the rest of the world. Then, the sound of rushing water filled my ears, coupled with a peculiar sort of humming or fluttering, almost like silk or cotton sheets rustling together. And then a beautiful, delicate smell, as of a lovely wood in spring, or a fragrant garden full of flowers, came to my nose, and I began to remember what had happened to me. As I lay there struggling to gather my thoughts, however, I felt something soft and gentle tickle at the end of my nose, and at last opened my eyes, fully awake, to see an enormous, fiery orange butterfly settled on my face. I flitted the creature away, and watched it flutter off in to the misty air, and it was then that I was at last able to take in my astonishing surroundings.

I was lying on a thick carpet of moss in the middle of the single most beautiful garden I have ever seen. Elegant, exotic trees with bark of moonlight silver and rich gold, and leaves of delicate pink and a beautiful blue-green, formed small copses around me, sometimes encircling a small, mossy area filled with star-shaped flowers of brilliant yellow, pink, and white, to form a pretty little glade. Soft, sweet-smelling cherry blossom bloomed on some of the trees, filling the air with a rainstorm of pink and white petals, almost like the confetti that was traditionally thrown at a wedding. A little way off between the trees, I could hear the rush of falling water, and, shifting a little across the uneven ground to see better, I caught sight of a white waterfall toppling over the edge of a small mass of gleaming, black stone, and then running away as a little stream through a wide area of seashells and white pebbles. Funny, twisted little trees grew up from the pebbles, bearing luscious green leaves that almost looked like fruits, and tiny flowers like snowflakes. The stream then widened considerably, and at one point, a sweet little red bridge was built across it, with some kind of canopy of bamboo and parchment forming an archway at the end. The stream curled away out of sight around the trees, and at its widest point, placed right in the middle of the rushing water, there stood a stone fountain in the shape of an oriental fish, rearing up on its tail, and shooting a stream of water in to the air.

Spell-bound, I carefully got to my unsteady feet, and continued to look around me. I appeared to have fallen on a small area of raised ground, partly covered by jet black and grey marbled rock, and partly covered by deep green moss (I had luckily fallen on a very dense patch of moss.) Below me was stretched yet more of the impossible garden, blooming with breathtaking colours of green, blue, sweet pink, and fiery red. Snaking inbetween the colours, like a river cutting through a landscape, was a twisting, pearl-grey path, decorated along the edges with golden bamboo, and red and purple flowers, which eventually came to a large, fierce looking, stone dragon statue, its body so fluid-like, and each scale so expertly carved, it looked as though the beast might come to life at any moment. What's more, its eyes were set with glinting, most likely real rubies, which only made it look fiercer, and even more life-like. Though the soft colours of the garden shone out vividly, I seemed to be in an almost night time atmosphere, and I could not see anything beyond the furthest tree except for a vast field of black. Looking above me, I realised that there was no sky, but a single beam of brilliant white light, like a stage light, shone down out of the black oblivion, and covered the garden with a soft, ethereal glow that was just enough to see by, like the light of a full moon. It was then that I finally realised...The garden was _underground._

I staggered about, gawping stupidly at everything I saw, and wondering how on _earth _Moriarty could have achieved something so breathtaking. An exquisite population of brightly coloured butterflies and jewel-like hummingbirds flitted through the air as I walked, feeding off of the nectar of the delicate blossoms and orange and pink passion flowers that dripped from the exotic trees. The air was warm and misted with moisture (probably a simulated climate for the benefit of the plants and the butterflies,) and had it not been for the wet, cool, and very real dew that came away on my hair and boots, I might have thought that I was dreaming. Indeed, I just seemed to wander around for a while in a very dream-like state, both hypnotised and confused by the incredible beauty that surrounded me. After a while, however, the headache that I had been suppressing caught up with me, and I came across a little, carved stone bench, and sat down for a rest. I gingerly searched my hair with my fingers, looking for any traces of blood that might have been a result of my fall, but thankfully didn't find any. Had I been hurt, I don't know what I would have done.

As I sat, tapping my heels against the gravel path, and admiring the way that the large, beautiful, red and golden fish glided beneath the glassy surface of a dark pond nearby, a curious thought came in to my head, and I reached under my corset, and took out one of the photographs that I had stolen from Moriarty's book – The old portrait of my family and the young foal, Lightning Strike. I remembered that Moriarty had said, just a short while ago when I had met him for the first time in his study, that he had not known my real name...So how on earth could he have come across a portrait of my family? If he had no idea of my name (and therefore no idea of my history,) then he could not have tasked someone with going to get the picture for him, as he would have had no idea what picture he was even looking for! I was stumped and intrigued, but also rather scared by this. Could it have been that Moriarty was able to obtain a picture of my family just a few short hours after learning my name? Or had he been lying for some reason when he had called me Miss Holmes, in an attempt to trick me? Ugh, the man was almost as infuriatingly mysterious as Holmes!...

Holmes...That troubling thought was creeping in on me again. I had to admit that I felt no safer here, lost in the depths of Moriarty's bizarre lair, than I usually did when I was in Baker Street under Holmes's care. His recent episode had made me frustrated, and even...I had to confess...a little afraid of him. I was starting to realise that I had ignored all of Holmes's obvious flaws in favour of his shining talents and occasional good humour, and had tricked myself in to believing (probably through grief,) that he was somehow a replacement – no, a reincarnated embodiment – of my father. I had looked at Holmes, and willed myself to see only my father's face looking back at me. That worried me...I had grown attached, it seemed, to a rather awful man, a man who did so much for so many people, and yet held no compassion for them, and did not want to be a hero. Was it really so good that Holmes did good deeds when he had no real intention behind them for stopping evil? He could easily, it seemed, have turned to crime in a heartbeat, had that proven to be more interesting than the field of detection. His morals were so empty, and his manners and sense of self truly atrocious. He had not even felt the slightest bit of compassion for me, his own orphaned cousin, when I had arrived on his doorstep with no money and nowhere to go (Had it not been for Watson, I would have found myself sleeping on the street with my scarlet suitcases.) By God, if I ever found my way out of here, I'd beat the pompousness out of him!

Once my head had settled again, I stowed the apparently impossible photograph back under my corset, and went back to wandering through the garden, looking for a way out, or (even better,) some indication as to where I now was, and what portion of London I was under. For all I knew, Moriarty's men had carried me miles away from Baker Street, and who knew how far the garden stretched? As I came around a bend in the path, and passed under a blue and silver tree thick with resting butterflies, however, I suddenly came across an old, stone archway, the masonry cracked and starting to grow over with moss, which opened on to a wide, dark, stone staircase. I froze at the sight of it, scarcely able to believe it. Was this my way out? Was this my escape from Moriarty's lair? Eagerly, I rushed towards it, sending up a cloud of blue, black, and purple butterflies...But at the foot of the staircase, something made me pause. I stared up in to the unknown, shadowy space above, wondering why I was not running for freedom. Was it because of the slightly sinister atmosphere of the staircase - Leaking and damp, and strewn here and there with cobwebs, as though no one had set foot on it for years? No. There was something else. It was almost...a reluctance to leave Moriarty's lair. An inexplicable want in the very depths of me that told me to stay in the lovely garden, not just because of its beauty, but because I...

I shook myself, and carefully began to ascend the stone steps.


	11. Chapter 10

**Note from Agatha: Giant, super, creepy chapter ;) Spot the Dracula tribute!**

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><p><strong>From the journal of Dr. John Watson:<strong>

**11:15pm**

_Nine years old. I was nine years old once again, staring in horrified fascination through the wrought iron gates of Highgate Cemetery in the dead of night, my eyelids pinned open in a manner that only fear can produce, as it steals in to one's heart, and forces one to behold the thing we cannot abide, making us drink in every vile detail as though we __**wish**__ to feel the dreadful sensation of helplessness that looking at our darkest fear invokes. My small hands grip at the cold, rusted bars of the gates which block my path in to the Cemetery, preventing me from completing the dare that my older brother has challenged me with, and separating me from the much wanted prize of the best train in his set. But I won't go back. I __**will **__get in to the Cemetery, and run three times up and down the path that leads between those rows of magnificent stone sphinxes, not just for the pride of completing a dare...but also for something else. I gaze up that dark pathway, deep in to the famous Cemetery that is the resting place of Lords and Ladies, as well as of famous philosophers and playwrights, and other people of high repute, and I realise that I __**want**__ to go in. It is like looking in to the alluring, amber eye of the snake as it raises its head to strike at its victim, and paralyze with wicked venom. So beautiful...and yet so dangerous. But perhaps that is what makes it beautiful? An irresistible, dark force calls to me, and compels me to climb the crumbling stone wall of the Cemetery, beckoning me through the shadows, almost like a sweet voice calling my name..._

"_John..."_

"Watson?"

I was brought abruptly back to the present by Holmes's voice at my side, and found myself clutching at the now ivy covered gates of Highgate Cemetery, gazing through at the row of sphinxes, which were a little more dark and weatherworn than they had been all those years ago. I shuddered, and looked away.

"Are you alright, Watson?" Holmes asked, looking at me in a perplexed manner, while he appeared to be gauging the height of the wall with the use of a broken tree branch.

"No," I replied, frankly. "Holmes, to bring me to a graveyard – any graveyard – is a vicious enough strain on my nerves, but to bring me _here_...! I have told you what happened to me here when I was a boy, when my parents brought me to London to see my aunt just after the New Year..."

"Childish fears must be set aside, Watson," Holmes said (not with an unkind sentiment, I knew.) "Miss Winchester – if you will pardon the rather inappropriate use of the expression – is in grave danger, and if we cannot find the tomb of our Lord Blackwood here, we may be too late too..."

He fell suddenly as he attempted to heave himself and the box containing Lord Blackwood's skull over the top of the wall, and gave a yell as his head sharply struck the ground. I ran to him, and found that his hands, when I clasped them, were as cold as ice, and he trembled as he rather unsteadily got to his feet. His face was ashen.

"Holmes," I said, imploringly; "You can't do this!"

Holmes panted, heavily for a moment, clutching my hands as though he were afraid he might fall again, then looked, resolutely up at me.

"I am merely a little inconvenienced, Watson," he said, insistently, though his voice rasped like a man dying of thirst. "However, if you would remain close by, where I can hold on to you, I would be most grateful."

"Are you dizzy?"

"No, I appear to be sinking."

I was puzzled by what he meant at first, then observed that he was steadily shifting from foot to foot, as though he had just stepped in a puddle of something unpleasant (which I knew couldn't be the case, as the ground was clear and dry.) My heart filled with despair.

"You're hallucinating."

"Indeed, I had deigned that, Watson, the ground does not usually tend to transform before one's eyes in to a dense, purple marsh."

I knew how much he would hate it if I showed any sign of pitying him, but damn it all, I did! I felt a great sympathy for my poor friend, struggling to find his lost young ward when his body and mind where in such a poor state.

"Follow me," I said, offering my arm to him, which he took without hesitation, tucking the box containing our deceased companion up under his free arm; "There's a broken section in the wall just down here, we can climb it more easily there..."

_I grasp at the uneven angles in the broken masonry, placing my foot on a large, dislodged cube of stone, and pushing myself up as far as I can go with a vigorous jump. My chest slams against the top of the wall, and I feel a graze, but I grit my teeth and bear it. My feet scramble and my jacket is caught and pulled, but I finally crouch on the top of the wall, and look out over the Cemetery, laid out like its own dark city below me. There are breathtaking Egyptian temples, flanked by tall obelisks carved with mystical hieroglyphs, and guarded by winged, stone lions; elegant Greek follies, planted about with bare olive trees, their gilded roofs decorated with dancing, alabaster figures, and held up by impressive columns of palest limestone; and beautiful Gothic tombs, watched over by gruesome gargoyles, and sealed with elaborate doors of polished silver and burnished brass, inscribed all over with Latin mottos, and depicting scenes of Death with His black cloak and scythe, beckoning souls to follow Him. And between the black yew trees, flitting shyly, or perhaps tantalisingly, in and out of view, a snowy white figure catches my eye..._

"_John..."_

_I leap down, eagerly, on to the grass, then wonder why. The figure frightens me..._

"If the ground would only stop shifting so sickeningly for a moment, I could get my balance!" Holmes said, irritably, as he threw Lord Blackwood's skull casket to me, and stepped down from the wall, but there was an unmistakable hint of anxiety in his voice that troubled me, as it meant a great deal for Holmes to be unsettled.

"Don't be afraid, Holmes," I murmured, though not quite loud enough for him to hear me. I was having trouble schooling my own fear; so what on earth I could do for poor Holmes in his building state of distress, I had not the faintest idea. Highgate had crumbled a little since my last visit, and Nature had taken an even tighter hold of it by thrusting Her arms of ivy over the rooftops of family vaults, and colouring the path beneath our feet with purple pools of blooming heather. But the shadows, the trees, even the scent of the air all seemed the same, and continued to transport me back to that awful night when I had wandered so stupidly in to the grounds of the Cemetery alone...

"Watson!"

I jumped a mile in to the air, nearly dropping Lord Blackwood's head, and whirled round to see Holmes pointing, accusingly at something behind me. I turned to see a softly gleaming, iron statue of a Roman soldier with his sword and shield, a proud, thin face gazing out from beneath his crested helmet.

"What do you want, demon?" Holmes demanded of the statue. "Point us to the tomb of the Blackwood family, or else I shall slay you!"

A truly horrible feeling came over me. I felt that I was intruding on some immensely private moment, as I could only imagine how shamed Holmes would have been had he known that I was bearing witness to his mind giving way to temporary insanity.

"Ah ha!" he cried, suddenly, with a manic grin. "This way, Watson!"

I stared, perplexed at the Roman statue, before Holmes grabbed me by my arm, and pulled me, forcefully along the path, between the dark alley of the yew trees.

"Watch your step," he hissed, urgently to me. "There are creatures in the marsh, Watson."

I was simply too bewildered, too afraid, and too utterly despairing to stop him. I trailed behind like a child's dragged teddy bear through the grey, enchanted shadows of Highgate Cemetery, while my poor, deluded friend shooed every statue as though it were a living creature, and ducked, conspiratorially behind tombs, as though he feared pursuit...

_I walk right past the alleyway of the sphinxes. Walk right past it. It doesn't interest me anymore. All that matters is the figure, the figure in the trees. I pursue it, desperately, weeping because it won't stop for me, and also because I don't want to chase it. But the figure __**does **__want me to chase it. So I do. I run until my lungs are burning and my feet are sore, and I am completely lost in the Cemetery. I start to call for my mother, hoping somehow that she can hear me. And then, a scent drifts back to me on the winter wind. At first, I think it is a horrible scent, the scent of blood...But then it changes under my nose in to the scent of roses and lilies, like the scent of a bouquet, or of a woman's expensive perfume. The scent entices me to run faster._

"_Faster, faster, little one, run faster! Come and play...Come and play with me..."_

_I wonder who that sweet, honey voice belongs to, then realise that it is coming from within my own head. _

"_Who are you?" I think to it, using my own voice._

_And then, __**she**__ appears. Smiling through the trees ahead of me, an angelic, lovely face, like a pearl – The most beautiful young woman I have ever seen! She appears only for a moment, like a ghost flitting through the moonlight, but her image brands itself in to my mind, and her ocean blue eyes stare, deeply in to me, like burning sapphires. How vividly they burn...They seem almost red for a moment..._

_I finally come to a fork in the path that branches off either way in to rows of black vaults, their front steps littered with the remnants of recently left tributes – Melted patches of white candle wax, and withered posies of the early blooming crocuses. But in the middle of the fork, set aside on a patch of land all of its own, is a magnificent tomb, gloriously white and glowing in the darkness, like an attractive lantern shining in a grim and darkened room. The family name engraved above the door is half covered by ivy. I step towards the tomb, entranced. I step towards the unknown tomb, like a moth drawn inexplicably to a burning flame..._

"The tomb, Watson, the tomb!"

I was once again wrenched from my memories of the past to see Holmes fairly dancing before me, pointing, triumphantly to a grand, ancient tomb in one of the darkest corners of the Cemetery. It was a veritable Gothic palace, being massively carved of granite stone, with etchings and figures not dissimilar to those that may be found in an Italian opera house, while the figure of a repugnant, black raven glared down from above the large door. But the raven was not the only totem that guarded the tomb. Stood on a small podium just next to the door was an eerily lifelike statue of what appeared to be a sleeping African slave, cast in gleaming bronze. The statue looked as though it had been recently polished, as the bronze was almost golden, with a bright sheen. I wondered if perhaps the wealthy family who owned the tomb had been old slave masters, who had been reluctant to part with their obedient servant, even in death. On the door to the massive tomb, there was engraved a single name – _**'Blackwood'. **_

"But, Holmes," I said, curiously, as I watched him making strange hand movements around his face, as though he was trying to brush away invisible cobwebs; "How on earth are we going to get inside to deposit _this?_" I lifted the gruesome box in my hands.

"Oh, that is deceivingly simple, my dear Watson," Holmes said, now starting to slap at his own face in frustration. Seeing me staring at him, he chuckled, and said, apologetically, "The insects in this wilderness, Watson. They are crawling across my very vision."

Had it not been for the family name emblazoned across the door of the tomb, I would have doubted that we had actually found the one that we were looking for, as Holmes seemed barely to remember where he even was. What strange and horrific fantasy world he had been plunged in to by the angry remnants of that vile drug as it withdrew from his system, I could not even begin to imagine.

"Now, let me ask this fellow."

I suddenly looked up to see Holmes strolling over to the brilliant bronze statue that stood watch over the tomb door, and he addressed it in an authoritative way;

"Speak now, demon! Has the devil Moriarty commanded you to hinder us in any way in getting in to the tomb?"

I would have covered my face with my hands, had it not been for the box.

"No," Holmes said, triumphantly; "You see, Watson, it shook it's head! Did you see it?"

"Holmes, really..."

"Wait one moment! Will you trap us inside? If we enter the tomb, will you trap us inside?"

I blinked. The fevered pounding of the blood in my head, coupled with the fact that my eyes were having to strain through the shadows to see properly, must have deceived me, for I thought for a moment that I saw the statue shake its head in reply to Holmes's question.

"No!" Holmes cried once again. "Then we may enter, Watson! Let us hope that it is not a lying demon."

While Holmes struggled with the heavy door to the tomb, I drew closer to the Negro statue, my suspicions well and truly raised. The bronze seemed so expertly cast – Even the pours of the human form had been included, giving the illusion of real, supple skin...

"Ah ha!" Holmes cried in joy, as the door to the tomb at last gave way with a loud, hollow grate, and a rush of grey dust. "I have it, Watson, I have it! Moriarty has left the tomb unbolted specifically for our entrance. Come, Watson, hurry, we've not a moment to lose..."

I watched him slip through the narrow gap he had managed to create in order to gain entrance to the tomb, and swallowed, heavily as I followed. Holmes had a slender form, he could crawl through the smallest of spaces...

_Her hand seems to reach through a chink no more than a hair's breadth wide in the tomb door, and yet it is solid and whole in shape, with every appearance of fleshly reality. It beckons to me softly, yet also harshly, like a tiger's savage claw reaching for its prey._

"_**Come!"**_

_The gleaming, silvery bolts on the door suddenly draw back of their own accord, making the door open with a loud clank. It is heavy, and I struggle to pull it back far enough for me to enter. The dust of the tomb stings my nose. I heave with all my might, and succeed in creating a gap in the door that is scarcely a foot wide. But I have a slender form. I can crawl through the smallest of spaces..._

The inside of the Blackwood family tomb was a black, decaying mess of fallen wood, broken porcelain, and dry and withered floral tributes, scattered as though by a storm. Small vaults ran along the walls, but in the very centre of the tomb were four beautiful, ebony black coffins, decorated with tarnished silver adornments. Each was set upon its own marble plinth, which had become smothered over the years with grey and tattered cobwebs, thick with dust. But beneath the dirt, some faint lettering could be seen.

" '_...Lord Francis Henry Eugene Blackwood, born 15__th__ March 1799, died 26__th__ December 1849, aged 50',_" I read from the first plinth, moving aside the decades' worth of cobwebs to reveal the memorial beneath, before moving over to the next plinth;

"And here..._'Here lies Lady Catherine Elizabeth Blackwood, wife to the Honourable Lord Henry, mother to Francis, and also to Grace...' _Grace..."

I moved across to the third plinth, and swept aside its layer of cobwebs;

"..._'Mrs. Grace – ' _"

My heart froze within me, and I pulled Holmes, fiercely over to the third plinth. Even in his state of disorientation, he was still able to read the inscription, and stare in utter disbelief, just as I did;

'_**Here lies Mrs. Grace Catherine Helena Moriarty, nee. Blackwood,**_

_**Beloved wife of Charles, mother to James and Rose,**_

_**And also daughter of the Honourable Lord Henry Blackwood and the Lady Catherine,**_

_**And sister of the Honourable Lord Francis.**_

_**Born 1**__**st**__** June 1804, died 26**__**th**__** December 1839, aged 35.**_

_**Reconciled at last with her beloved family, but only in Death.'**_

"Well, Watson," Holmes murmured, after what seemed like an eternity of silence; "It seems our Professor Moriarty is not averse even to desecrating the graves of his own ancestors for the purposes of his strange, twisted games."

"What do you think it means by _'Reconciled at last'_?"

Holmes gently took the box containing the skull of Lord Henry Blackwood – the man who we now knew to be Moriarty's own grandfather – and solemnly approached the fourth plinth, which stood slightly higher than the rest.

"Clearly, the lady had had some disagreement with her family in life, perhaps over her choice of husband," he said, matter-of-factly, though I saw by the dim light in the tomb that his expression was grave. "She is described merely as _Mrs. _Grace Moriarty on her memorial, so she married from her own distinguished family in to a family without title. It is not often that a family of blue blood approves of such a thing."

It was strange, but as I stood regarding the coffin of Grace Moriarty (a lady whom I had never known, nor even set eyes on in life, and who had been the mother of the fiend who currently held Miss Winchester prisoner,) I felt a strong wave of sympathy suddenly come over me.

"How awful," I muttered, sadly, as I observed the tragically young age that the lady had been upon the day of her death. "Her children must have been very young when she passed away. I say, Holmes, don't you think it a strange coincidence about the date of Mrs. Moriarty's death and the death of her...?"

But my voice suddenly caught in my throat, and every hair on my body stood on end, as I suddenly heard the sound of scratching, coming somewhere from within the depths of the tomb...

_I look about, but I cannot see her in the darkness. I cannot see her, but I can smell her – I can smell the beautiful fragrance of rose and lily, now stronger than ever in the absolute darkness of the tomb. I move forward, hands reaching, and I suddenly come across something cold, hard, and smooth. I feel along it, try to feel its shape – it feels like something wooden – and my hand comes across a bundle of something that crackles at my touch. It flakes away as I try to grip it, but its faint scent tells me what it is. It is a bouquet of flowers, now ruined and withered. Suddenly, I realise that there is no smell of flowers in the tomb. They are all dead. There is only the thick, suffocating dust, the stink of the earth, the smell of the dead...I scream as I feel rats moving around my feet, gnawing at my shoes, squeaking somewhere down in the darkness. I stumble across a floor strewn with debris, blindly reaching for the tomb's door, desperate to escape..._

"Holmes!" I hissed, urgently, my heart pounding. "Did you hear that?"

"Did I hear what, Watson?" Holmes said, distractedly, for he was busy struggling with the fastenings of Lord Blackwood's coffin. "Really, Doctor, you must not allow your imagination to run away with you, I told you that the demon outside promised us no harm..."

"Be quiet, Holmes!" I snapped at him, half in frustration, half in sheer terror, as I felt my limbs begin to shake. "There! Did you hear that?"

There was a faint clank of metal, like something falling, from somewhere at the back of the enormous family mausoleum, behind fallen wooden beams, and great gatherings of cobwebs.

"I'm sure it is nothing, Watson," Holmes said, dismissively, rattling at Lord Blackwood's coffin in frustration. "A rat, perhaps, moving about in the rubble. Damn it all, I can't quite get this lid up! Watson, if you would...?"

_I fall back against the long, wooden object I had encountered earlier. No, surely not? I had moved __**towards **__the door, surely? I begin to cry in terror, but my tears freeze as I suddenly feel my hand drop inside something tattered, but also smooth and soft. It feels like satin. Like an old, satin lining...My heart lurches, and I leap away, as the horrifying realisation creeps in on me that I have placed my hand inside a __**coffin**__...And it is empty..._

"Watson?"

I looked up, sweating and terrified, and almost screamed at the sight of Holmes's pale face, just dimly visible in the shadows. He looked at me, curiously.

"My dear Watson, are you alright?"

"No, Holmes!" I cried, almost angrily, blood screaming in my ears. "I want to leave! I want to leave this place, _now!_"

"But Watson, it is only a matter of lifting the coffin lid, and placing Lord Blackwood's skull back in its rightful place. Come now, I cannot lift the lid by myself...We are Miss Winchester's only hope, Watson."

Whether it was the soothing tone of Holmes's voice, or the reminder that I had a duty to perform, I felt my heartbeat settling back in to a comfortable rhythm, and my breathing became less ragged and frantic. Fighting down my fear, I slowly approached the coffin where Holmes patiently stood.

"Brave Watson," he muttered, as I gripped the coffin lid with him. "I can always rely on my Boswell. See now, the lid only needs one more good push to wrench it free. I think that together we can manage it. Ready? One, two, _three!_"

The coffin lid gave way with a snap, and fell back over the side of the marble plinth to clatter, heavily on to the floor. A cloud of dust rose up, obscuring our vision, but, once it had settled, we at last beheld the headless, skeletal remains of Lord Henry Erasmus Blackwood, the remaining scraps of his funeral garb being consumed by scurrying spiders and fat, black insects. And there, clutched in his skeletal hands, something gleamed, brightly.

"Here we are, my friend," Holmes said, politely to the skull, as he placed it back above its former shoulders. "_Requiescat in pace._ [4] Now, I assume this is our next clue, most generously bequeathed to us by our friend Professor Moriarty..."

He was just reaching for the glittering object in the skeleton's hands, when suddenly, there came a sound of much creaking and grating. The two of us looked up in horror to see the great door to the tomb swinging shut, ready to seal us inside!

"_No!_" I screamed with a thrill of panic, running, frantically for the door. "Oh, please God, no!"

"The lying demon!" Holmes roared, rushing for the door himself. "I'll rip its heart out! I'll melt it down in a furnace, and craft it in to cutlery!"

And then, a miracle occurred. With a loud crash, a few of the fallen beams that stood still half propped up at the far end of the tomb fell to the floor, knocking, as they did so, in to one of the cracked and broken beams that still clung to the roof, and causing it to fall. The beam toppled like a felled tree, and wedged itself in the closing door to the tomb, securing our escape. Before I could celebrate, however, a cold stab of fear sliced through the middle of my heart, and I felt the colour drain rapidly from my face, as a white figure lunged from the darkness, and collapsed over the coffin of Grace Moriarty...

_Her white hands lunge at me, clawing for my face, desperate to have me in their grasp. She screeches like a Banshee, uttering a sickening death rattle that curdles my blood, and almost kills me there and then with its dreadfulness..._

"Holmes, _run!_" I cried, now completely senseless with fear, and grabbing at my friend before he could even turn to look at the white figure. I did not expect him to resist me, as he strained towards Lord Blackwood's coffin, desperate to pick up the clue that Moriarty had left for us. The clue, however, and all knowledge of our mission, had been completely obliterated from my mind. I saw only the gap of moonlight that the fallen beam had managed to secure for us in the tomb door, and I pulled, frantically towards it.

"Watson, you fool!" Holmes yelled, harshly to me, but my ears barely registered him over the terrifying sound that the white figure was attempting to make, its voice rasping and cracked, like some hideous death rattle...

"_Watson..."_

"NO!" I cried in terror, still fighting to get to the door. "Please, Holmes, please...Come _on!_"

I looked over my shoulder, and saw that his hands were inside Lord Blackwood's coffin. As I yanked him, fiercely towards the door, however, there was a snap, and I saw that he had actually come away with one of Lord Blackwood's hands in his own, our clue still clutched in its skeletal grasp. With Holmes now willing, we both fled from the tomb as fast as our legs would take us, away through the Cemetery, running and running through the intoxicatingly cool night air, while a mournful cry wailed after us, like a spirit in torment. It seemed to me that the whole Cemetery was now alive, having transformed truly in to Holmes's nightmarish hallucination of a sticky, black and purple wilderness, haunted by strange creatures, and with shadows stalking us wherever we went. I saw the broken section in the wall, and ran for it with tears in my eyes, almost knocking Holmes aside in my eagerness to climb it and at last be free of the Cemetery.

And then, with a painful sigh as my terror blew apart, and gave way to blissful relief, I fell from the top of the Cemetery wall, and landed with the most reassuring thud I have ever experienced in my life, on to the hard London pavement, bathed in lamplight. It was like bursting out from the gates of Hell. After a moment or so, I opened my eyes, and saw that Holmes had landed beside me, the skeleton hand of Lord Blackwood held, limply in his grasp. He had fainted. I did not revive him at once, however, and instead just lay there, drawing the air deep in to my lungs, and trying to calm myself, trying to remember...

For the nightmare that I had apparently experienced that night in Highgate Cemetery, as a boy of only nine years old, had never really happened, I reminded myself. It had all been a dream. A policeman had found me, shivering and cold, curled up outside the gates of the Cemetery where I had apparently fallen after trying to climb the wall. I had fallen unconscious on the pavement and only dreamed of the horrific event in the white tomb. The hideous woman who haunted Highgate Cemetery did not really exist, I told myself.

It was only a dream.

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><p>[4] Latin - <em>May he rest in peace<em>


	12. Chapter 11

**From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:**

**11:15pm**

The staircase seemed to ascend on and on forever, twisting, sharply to the left or right here and there, and growing colder and darker the further I climbed, until I was afraid that I would never see the light of day again. As the shadows grew denser, and my eyes were left useless in the dark, I was forced to feel my way along the wet, slimy walls, and stumbled, repeatedly on the cluttered, broken stone steps, spitting as unseen cobwebs flew in my face, and frantically brushing at my dress in case any of their eight-legged occupants had fallen on me. I felt like weeping, but held back the tears, even though there was no one around who I was compelled to hide them from. As I continued to kick heaps of wood and blocks of broken stone out of my way, grabbing at the cold, wet, moss-dappled wall in the impenetrable blackness, I wondered, perhaps for the tenth time, what on _earth _I was doing. Even if I did eventually find my way out, I had not the slightest idea as to where in the whole of England I was! How was I going to find my way back to Baker Street?...Assuming, of course, that that _was _where I wanted to go?...

"_You should have stayed in the garden," _a nasty little voice whispered at the back of my mind.

I did my best to ignore it, crashing my feet, loudly through the rubble that lay on the stairs, but the devilish little whisper persisted in following me, like a wicked, tempting little imp that had perched itself on my shoulder;

"_What are you going to do? Run back to Holmes? He doesn't care about you. And even if he does, you know what will happen to you. Moriarty showed you that tonight. You'll either be sent mad and find yourself sacrificing yourself to his enemies in the name of the affection he does show for you, or spend the rest of your life broken-hearted for the lack of it..."_

"What else can I do?" I found myself murmuring in to the darkness, carefully testing the crooked steps before me with the tip of my boot. "He's the only family I have! I haven't got anywhere else to go!"

"_Oh, yes you have."_

I froze suddenly in my ascent of the staircase.

"_Go back. Break free of Holmes, and go back. The Professor will take care of you. If you'd just be a little more polite and courteous towards him, there wouldn't be any reason for him to harm you or keep you prisoner – He doesn't __**want **__to hurt you in any way, you know that. You've seen how fond he is of you. If you talk to him, listen to what he has to say, maybe you'll learn just why he seems to have such a grudge against Holmes? Goodness knows, there's likely to be a good reason behind it!"_

Not wanting to stand still in the suffocating darkness for a moment longer, I proceeded to run, frantically up the steps, gasping and choking in the rotten, damp air, struggling to draw breath through the horrific, frightening realisation that seemed to have closed up my throat. I stumbled away from my own thoughts, while the nasty little voice cackled, horribly at the back of my mind, knowing that it would soon triumph. But the cackling was abruptly broken off as I suddenly I tripped over an unseen object in my path, and fell, roughly against something that sent a cold feeling of despair plunging in to the pit of my stomach – It was a dead end...

Or so I thought. For as I clawed at the wet, slippery stone walls around me, unsuccessfully trying to stop myself from falling, my hand brushed against something that felt quite different to the smooth yet jagged surface of the stone. My fingers scraped against it, and I whipped them back with a yelp of pain as my knuckles came away grazed and sore. A faint smell of metal had also been left on my skin. Reaching out from where I had landed, crumpled at the top of the stairs, I felt in front of me something which seemed to be a metal hatchway, rusted and overgrown with moss, and positioned quite low down in the wall. Curiously, I ran a searching, hesitant hand along the edges of the metalwork, feeling the large, worn bolts beneath my fingertips like brail, until I suddenly came across what felt like a handle. My heart jumped, and I grasped the handle with both hands, and heaved with all my might, expecting the hatchway to be unyielding and stiff with long disuse. To my great surprise, however, it opened quite easily, and I almost overbalanced and fell backwards down the stone steps as my overexerted effort threw me back a little. The opening was quite large, and I crawled through it easily – But as I crawled, I thought I caught the strong scent of fresh oil. Someone had been tending to the hatchway's hinges.

I was on my hands and knees in what felt like a much larger (but equally dark,) chamber, and as I crawled across the filthy, dust-coated floor that I encountered immediately after exiting the hatchway, my hands knocked against a clamour of objects which rattled with a strange, hollow sort of sound. Still on my knees, I felt across the floor, and came across something hard and smooth, which was about the size of a large rock, and seemed, at first, to be round. As my hand continued to explore it, however, I found that the object had a strange yet somehow familiar shape that I could not quite place. It bore three holes, one of which was almost triangular, while the other two were round, and had an incomplete row of some smooth, squareish attachments, that were quite sharp along the edges...

Fear pierced my heart, and I leapt up with a scream as I realised that the object I was touching was a human skull! The rest of the poor soul's bones clattered under my boots, and I staggered back in horror against the wall I had just crawled through, and found my back pressing against something cold, hard, and with the sharp, tanging smell of rusted metal. Bewildered, I turned to face the wall, and blindly ran my hands across it, feeling a dozen more of those old, metal hatchways, some placed lower down in the wall, towards the floor, and others higher up, running in a row above the hatchways below them, and with another row of similar hatchways positioned even above them. They felt almost all identical under my hands, but here and there, one hatchway would have something slightly different about it – A very small detail, which seemed to me to be a narrow, metal plaque, engraved with worn, almost indistinguishable letters. I buried my fingertips in to the engraved grooves, and found that I was beginning to make out names, reading them with my touch. A hideous chill shot down my spine as I finally realised...The hatchways that lined the wall were vaults, and I was in a mausoleum!

I stretched my arms out in front of me, and staggered against a barrier of cracked, rotting wood, strewn with the sort of thick, soft cobwebs that can only be made through years of work by an ambitious spider. I closed my eyes against the blackness, and inhaled the dank, empty smell of the tomb, trying to hold back the memory that was attempting to push its way to the front of my mind...But it was too late. I saw Father's coffin being lowered in to the ground in that pokey little village churchyard in Kent, the crooked spire of the church towering over my head in to the grey sky, the veiled, weeping face of Rowena as she stared down at the cheap casket that contained the remains of my lifelong friend and guardian, and I relived the hot, boiling anger that had bubbled at the heart of me as I had glared at her face, and thought how this was all her fault. The aching emptiness that I had tried so hard to repress returned to me, and I realised, finally, as a solitary tear rolled down my cheek, just how utterly lonely I had been since Father's death – How I longed for that sense of security and protection that his presence had given me, and how the reassuring weight of his hand on my shoulder had filled me with the comforting knowledge that I would always be cared for and watched over, rather than having to fight through life, as I had been doing for many months now. I was still (though I hated to admit it,) a child – A child who needed a parent by her side...

Suddenly, a heavy grating sound dragged me back from one dark world to another, and I looked up to see a faint sliver of light emerging a short distance away, but which was inaccessible to me due to the many, hefty wooden beams and the thick curtain of cobwebs that I found to be in front of me. It looked like a door was opening...Someone was entering the tomb! Unsure whether to be delighted or afraid at the realisation that someone had finally found me, I attempted to peer a little closer at the people whose footsteps I could now hear scuffling across the rubble-strewn floor, but could not get a good look at them from between the beams (The tomb was a large one, and the strangers who had entered were at the far end of it, while I was trapped behind a veritable forest of dense, rotting wood.) I walked back and forth in frustration in what was essentially my small prison cell in the midst of the fallen beams and cobwebs, wondering what I should do.

As voices began to murmur at the opposite end of the dark tomb, I realised that the unknown figures who had made their way inside were men (at least two of them, from what I could hear,) and I crouched low behind the beams, even though there was little chance of them seeing me. I was suspicious of the fact that this tomb was connected to Moriarty's lair, and did not know whether to count the men on the other side of the beams as my friends or enemies (But indeed, those who I counted as my enemies seemed quickly to be trading places with those who I counted as my friends.) I decided to see if I could venture a little further forward in to the tomb, and searched for any sign of a gap between the beams. There was one, but it was much too small for me to squeeze through. I would have to try and shift one of the beams. Wedging myself in to the gap as far as I could go, I forced my shoulder against one of the beams, and pushed with as much as strength as I had. It wouldn't budge.

Grumbling with frustration, I tried to force myself, head first in to the gap, scratching and scrabbling at the rotting wood, and trying to make my way through, but just couldn't make myself fit. There was a sudden pause from the men in the tomb, and I heard one of them muttering something to the other. I sat, stock still for a moment, listening, intently, but the men made no move towards me, so I looked about, and realised that the only way I was going to break free of the beams was if I climbed over the top of them. The very idea of this filled me with apprehension. The beams were broken and rotting, and did not look at all safe to climb...It was, however, my only option. Sinking my fingernails as securely as I could in to the soft, damp wood, I squeezed one knee around the side of my chosen beam (which stooped a little more steeply than the rest, and was therefore much easier to scale,) and dug the heel of my opposite boot in to the wide cracks, before hoisting myself up. My feet scrabbled a little, and I hastily reached up with my right hand, knocking down some broken, bronze figurehead that seemed to have become detached from the ceiling and fallen on to the beams, and sending it toppling to the floor with a clatter. One of the men once again murmured something, and I found that I was just able to make out his words;

"...There! Did you hear that?"

I slid a little back down the beam, concealing myself from sight, and remained quiet for a few moments. It was especially irritating that I could not see the men clearly, as I wanted to be sure who they were and what their purpose was in the mausoleum before I possibly asked for their help. There was a frantic sort of rattling as the men busied themselves with some task, and I curiously hoisted myself up, at last reaching the top of the beam, and peered through the darkness at the two figures I could now see, just illuminated by the moonlight that streamed through the open door to the tomb. One of them seemed busy trying to open a coffin that sat on a marble plinth in the middle of the tomb, while the other stood a short distance away in a sort of rigid, hypnotised terror. As I pulled myself across the top of the beams, struggling through sticky patches of cobwebs, and trying to get a proper look at my curious company, I heard the figure by the coffin say something to his frightened looking companion, who responded with a terrified shriek;

"No, Holmes! I want to leave! I want to leave this place, _now!_"

My entire form went rigid, and my heart leapt in to my mouth. Could I be sure of what I had just heard? I shuffled further across the top of the forest of broken beams, and stared, hard at the two dark figures, making out their clothes, their gait, their profiles...

"...Come now, I cannot lift the lid by myself...We are Miss Winchester's only hope, Watson..."

I would have recognised that voice amongst the din of a bellowing crowd..._Holmes. _A surge of delight flooded through me like sunshine, and I was just about to call, eagerly to the pair of them with tears of joy in my eyes, when a thought suddenly flashed across my mind, and I was stifled in to silence. That nasty little presence at the back of my mind had made itself known again, filling me with a powerful, haunting doubt, and no matter how fiercely I struggled against it, I simply could not bring myself to call out to Holmes and Watson – It seemed suddenly yet inexplicably wrong, like screaming in the middle of a church, or bringing up the controversial issue that so clearly overshadowed the strained party gathered around the dinner table. The silence longed to be broken, and yet my calling out Holmes or Watson's name seemed somehow forbidden.

I battled, despairingly against my own reluctance as I watched Holmes and Watson prise open the ebony coffin, and place something inside it, murmuring to each other with grave importance in their voices...When suddenly, there came the sound of heavy stone grating against heavy stone, and the three of us looked up at the same moment to see the door to the tomb swinging shut!

"_No!_" I heard Watson scream in absolute terror, as he ran, despairingly for the door. "Oh, please God, no!"

Whether it was the sound of Watson's fear, or the shock of my own crippling terror as I saw the tomb door swinging to, ready to seal us inside, I suddenly regained my voice, and realised that there was nothing I wanted more than to run, safely to the two men who had become my guardians and friends.

"_Wat – !"_

But my call was drowned out, as I suddenly heard a great crack from underneath me, and found myself falling forwards in a cascade of toppling wooden beams. I swiped, ineffectively at the rushing air, and fairly swan-dived in to a very thick beam which keeled over like a domino, crashing in to one of the few wooden beams which still clung to the ceiling, and causing it to fall in the path of the closing door, safely wedging it open. The ceiling shook. I hit the floor. Beams landed all around me. A shower of white dust rained down from the crumbling ceiling, covering me from head to foot, scratching at my skin, and blanching the dark blue velvet and cream cotton of my dress. I coughed, violently as the thick dust forced its way in to my lungs, and clung to the inside of my throat. Staggering to my feet, I ran, blindly forwards, tearing thick cobwebs from my body, and suddenly slammed in to a marble plinth, falling across the coffin that was placed on top of it. I hacked and gasped for air, my eyes watering and no doubt red from the dust, and, when I finally could see, I glanced up, and felt a thrill of relief at the sight of Watson standing over me. But on a second glance, I saw that his face was grey and contorted with terror, and there was a true look of horror in his eyes as he stared down at me.

"Holmes, _run!_" he cried suddenly, grabbing hold of Holmes, and attempting to drag him towards the tomb door. Confused, I opened my mouth, and tried to speak to them, but my voice came out as nothing but a dry rasp, as I continued to cough up the dust.

"Watson, you fool!" I heard Holmes shout, and I saw that he was desperately trying to grab at something in the coffin that he and Watson had prised open. Watson, however, continued to pull him, and I saw that the poor man had clearly gone half-mad with the terror of something, and I once again tried to utter his name;

"_Watson..."_

"NO!" came Watson's despairing scream in reply, and he began babbling, frantically to Holmes, begging him to let them leave the tomb. I was also in a state of despair, for I did not have a clue what was wrong, or why it seemed that Watson couldn't recognise me.

Suddenly, he and Holmes shot past me, Holmes clutching something in his hand, and I leaned, desperately over the coffin, and reached out to him, trying to make him notice me, trying to make him realise that he and Watson had found me...

He didn't even look at me.

Still coughing and struggling to breathe through the dust that stuck in my throat, I heaved myself off of the marble plinth, and rushed to the door after Holmes and Watson, slipping through the gap that the fallen beam I had knocked down had secured in the door, and stumbling out in to the night, finding myself stood in a dark corner of a vast, sprawling cemetery, with grand tombs and looming statues of gods, gargoyles, and weeping angels everywhere. I finally managed to cough up the last of the horrible dust, the cool night air soothing to my sore throat, and saw Holmes and Watson tearing away across the black cemetery like two men running from Death. I was about to yell after them, when a large, strong hand suddenly gripped my shoulder from behind me, and I whipped around, and nearly fainted at the horrific sight of a glaring, bronze statue, gleaming gold amongst the black, and looking down at me with a face such as I had never seen before. The features looked similar to those of the Negro housekeepers and stablehands I had occasionally encountered in the mansions of governors and wealthy entrepreneurs back in Virginia – the strong jaw, the broad nose, the large lips, the heavily lidded eyes – but the skin was most definitely the colour of burnished bronze, shimmering like fresh..._paint_.

"Come now, little miss," the man disguised as a statue said, softly, in a strong, thick accent. "You must come back with me. The master will be waiting for you."

I said nothing. I simply turned and stared after the vanished figures of Holmes and Watson, and burst in to unashamed wave of heartbroken tears, my sobs echoing about the lonely cemetery.

They had left me.


	13. Chapter 12

**Note from Agatha: WOAH! It's been a while! Such crazy stuff has been happening over Christmas and New Year, I practically forgot all about FanFiction (Sorry to anyone who was reading my Christmas Advent Calendar Challenge. That got permanently shelved. I FAIL the Challenge!) Anyway, I've dragged this out long enough. Chapter 13 will be up tomorrow.**

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><p><strong>From the journal of Dr. John Watson:<strong>

**11:45pm**

"Coffee," I said, shortly, presenting Holmes with a grey, cracked cup of the substance, as I returned to our table under the flickering gaslight. "Drink it."

For once, my colleague did not argue. He quietly took up the cup and saucer I had placed in front of him, and drank as obediently as a child, his eyes more empty and staring than I had ever seen them. As soon as we had both recovered from our excursion over the cemetery wall, I had led the muttering and still clearly disturbed Holmes as far away from Highgate as I possibly could, seeking out the warm, comforting glow of the London street lights to banish the haunted black shadows that still clung to us, until we had come to a small, quiet coffee house on a desolate street corner. The plump, apron-clad woman who stood alone scrubbing tables in the establishment had looked positively startled when I had come stumbling through the door supporting Holmes, begging for her to help us.

We sat, silently by the cafe window for several minutes, staring in to our empty cups like fortune tellers attempting to divine the future in tea leaves. I was in shock, but it was slowly passing, and the warm coffee had done me good. Holmes, meanwhile, seemed to be growing steadily more awake and aware of himself, and had stopped flinching at every small noise and at the sight of his own shadow. His hallucinations were waning, I knew, and as he slowly relaxed, I saw that he loosened his grip around the object we had retrieved from Lord Blackwood's tomb, and left it sitting in the middle of the table. Finally, I could see what it was – It was a strange, beautifully wrought, gold ornament in the shape of a raven's head, encrusted with scintillating diamonds, and with stunningly black jewels for eyes, its beak agape in a grotesque, hungry expression. It must have been of immense value, I thought, and attached to it was a small, silver key on a purple velvet ribbon, with a label bearing a new message from the twisted Moriarty. But I did not care for that man's games anymore.

Taking a deep breath, I looked up at Holmes with as firm an expression as I could muster, clutching my coffee cup so as to disguise the fact that my hands were still shaking. I knew he would not like what I was about to say;

"Holmes, this has gone far enough. Moriarty is putting us both through hell, and in your present state, to continue any further tonight with this awful task would be impossible. I am sorry my friend, but..." I tentatively leaned forward, and placed my hand on his own icy cold one; "We must return to Baker Street."

Holmes did not reply. I followed his gaze, and saw that his eyes were fixed, unwaveringly on the strange ornament in the middle of the table, a faint crease marring the chalky white skin between his eyebrows. I wasn't certain if he could hear me.

"Holmes," I repeated, tapping my friend's hand in an attempt to stir him. "Holmes, we can't go on! This is madness! We will never find Miss Winchester if Moriarty succeeds in wearing you down to a worthless wreck! Come, let's go home to Baker Street, rest until the morning. I doubt that this villain would do any harm to Miss Winchester until you've completed his little game..."

Still Holmes did not respond, and I saw him curiously touch the jewelled bird's skull on the table between us, the crease between his eyebrows deepening with every second.

"Holmes, for God's sake, _please!_" I protested, grabbing at his arm in desperation. "Don't let this fiend have his way, don't let him kill you! Can't you see that he's trying to separate you – separate us both! – from our sanity? He wants to keep us roaming desperately about the streets of London all night, when we should be home in Baker Street, making our plans, trying to catch the scoundrel out! He knows you, Holmes! He won't let you access your powers to find him, he wants to keep you mad and running about in this dismal night maze like a rat! Please, Holmes...We _must _return to Baker Street!"

Whether or not my words were getting through to Holmes I could not be sure, but it seemed that a very curious thought had made its way in to his mind. I watched as he picked up the glittering raven's head, letting the key dangle from its ribbon, and completely ignoring the attached message. A fleeting, wild expression flashed across his eyes, like the sun bursting in through a crack in to a dark room, and for a moment I was afraid a fit might come over him.

"Yes, Watson," he said, softly. "We _must _return to Baker Street..."

I stared at him in utter disbelief. I couldn't believe my ears! Sherlock Holmes was consenting to my argument, submitting to the advice of his friend and doctor, accepting temporary defeat...Never had I thought that I would see the day (And if I ever had, I had assumed that the skies would surely cave in on our heads!) It seemed far too improbable to be true...And as it turned out, it was.

Holmes leapt suddenly to his feet with a smile and a laugh of glorious triumph, clutching the jewelled raven's head in his hand like it was the missing piece to a long unfinished jigsaw puzzle.

"Watson," he said, urgently, pulling the label and the silver key from their ribbon, and slamming them both down on to the table in front of me; "It is imperative that you follow Moriarty's instructions exactly! Let nothing stop you! His many eyes will no doubt be following you across the city, and it is essential that he does not suspect we are on the very cusp of catching him!"

I started back in my chair, looking up at Holmes in complete bewilderment. Either this was a new phase in that created lunacy of withdrawal, or my friend's remarkable gifts had somehow returned to him through the smoke-screen of terror that Moriarty had attempted to blind us with.

"But...But, Holmes!" I stammered, trying to deduce what on earth had come over him; "How can you _possibly _be on the verge of catching Moriarty? We haven't the faintest idea where the devil is! He's been leading us on a wild goose chase across London all night!"

"Precisely, Watson," Holmes said, straightening his collar and smoothing down his hair so that he looked more like his old, respectable self again. "And the devil no doubt thinks that he has won, and that we are suitably confused and mad enough not to see what has been in front of us the whole time. But see, he has made one crucial mistake!"

He held up the glittering ornament in his hand before laughing once more, and going to pay our bill. I rose to my feet, determined to ask Holmes just what it was that he had discovered, but found myself dragged to the door of the coffee house by the sleeve of my coat, Holmes whispering his instructions in to my ear;

"As soon as we are outside, I want you to hail a cab. You will not have to wait long or search very far, I happen to know that they patrol this stretch of road quite regularly. Once you have found one, I want you to put me in it, and loudly and clearly declare that you are sending me home, as I am too ill and delirious to carry on. Tell me that you will continue the search for Miss Winchester alone, act like you are reassuring me. Once you have left me in the cab, do not look back. Simply follow the instructions on the note, and be prepared when you arrive at your destination, Watson! Do not let yourself be caught off guard! I will send a message to you telling you what to do next. It is _essential _that you do as I say, Watson! Miss Winchester's life may depend on it! Hush, not a word now. Just find me a cab."

I stumbled as Holmes suddenly fell limp against my shoulder, as though weak, and I carried him outside in to the street in search of a hansom. Holmes was right, I did not have to look very far for a cab. One came conveniently trundling along the road almost as soon as we had left the coffee house, and I paid the cabbie, and deposited Holmes in to the seat exactly as he had told me, though I still had not a clue as to what this extraordinary plan was supposed to achieve. The last glimpse that I had of Sherlock Holmes was of his pale face peering out at me above his upturned coat collar, his gleaming eyes open just a fraction, and with a smile in them that was as delighted and mischievous as an imp about to play his tricks on a mere mortal.

Walking away from the cab, I reached in to my pockets, and found that Holmes had deposited the key and Moriarty's note in to my left one, but the jewelled raven ornament he seemed to have taken with him on his mysterious journey. Taking out the note, I stepped under a street light, and read the brief message that was penned in the same gleaming gold ink as the last;

'_Kingsley and Sons International Bank, Highgate West Hill, Vault 221. See what you have done to your young flower, Mr. Holmes'._


	14. Chapter 13

**Note from Agatha: Hello! I realise I have been gone for a long time, but I had stuff. Lots of stuff. Anyway, explanation over! Here, FINALLY, is Chapter 13. And I WILL be finishing this story over the next few days...Really...No, REALLY! :)**

**P.s...Aaaand, I just uploaded this new chapter in to totally the wrong story! Fixed it now! :)**

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><p><strong>From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:<strong>

**12:00 am**

The world seemed to melt as my tears rained on the ground, and I cannot clearly remember what happened immediately after that. The very next memory that I have is of once again finding myself on the twisting, gravelled path of the magnificent underground garden, with beautiful trees rustling above my head, and the damp humidity of the clouded, perfumed air causing my curls to fall from their neat arrangement of pins and ribbon. It was a strange but pleasant contrast to the bleak, dark mournfulness of the cemetery. I do not think that I had been unconscious, for I was walking of my own accord in front of the large Negro man who had found me outside the tomb, and I could vaguely recall the shadows of that dank and miserable stone staircase as he had apparently forced me back down it. My senses had seemingly fallen in to a deep grey pit, reducing me to almost a sleepwalking state as the living statue from the cemetery had led me back to Moriarty's gilded dungeon. Or at least it had seemed like a dungeon to me, only a few hours ago. Now, it seemed like a haven, and I beheld it in all its beauty, without seeing the same taint of an evil presence that I had seen before.

As I fully opened my eyes, and looked around for just what it was that had brought me out of my despairing, wakeful sleep, a soft voice called my name, and I looked up to see that the man disguised as a statue was leading me towards a tall set of crooked stone steps, flanked by deep blue marble pillars, and crawling with lush green vines, like the incredible ruins of the forgotten jungle cities so often talked about in the published accounts of the adventures of famous explorers. And at the top of the steps, waiting patiently with his ebony walking stick, carved in the shape of a coiling, Chinese dragon, was Professor Moriarty.

"At last, my dear!" he cried, joyfully (There was no trace of deception on his face. He was genuinely pleased that I had returned.) "Thank goodness! When Albert and I discovered you missing from your little box, and then found the chute under the Synaesthesia Organ open, we feared you might have come to harm. This maze is no place for a young girl such as yourself to wander about alone." He smiled, sweetly in to my face, then looked up with a darkened expression to the man standing behind me. "I see by Kasim's presence here that you made it all the way to the family mausoleum...Was _he _there?"

"He was, sir," the Negro replied, brushing a hand across his face and smearing the gold paint that covered it, revealing the deep mahogany of his skin underneath. "Both Holmes, and his doctor friend. They opened up the grave of your grandfather, stole something from inside. I tried to stop them, but..."

My eyes widened with horror as I heard these words. Holmes had desecrated the grave of Moriarty's grandfather? For what purpose?

Just then, there was the rattle and slam of a heavy, iron-ribbed door closing, and Albert the butler emerged serenely from the shadows beneath the canopy of a stone gazebo, bearing a silver tray on one hand. Without a word or even a glance towards me, he approached the Professor and presented him with the tray, which held a single, small envelope. Moriarty tore open the message and scanned it carefully, his black eyes flicking from left to right as he read. Slowly, his eyebrows drifted together, then positively knitted together in a hard frown of confusion.

"Hm...Not as I had hoped. I was rather looking forward to hearing of Mr. Holmes reaching the end of my little puzzle." He paused, seemingly mulling something over in his mind, before turning to Albert. "Proceed as planned. I will give instructions on the matter of Mr. Holmes at a more..._convenient _time." He turned with a smile back to me, his eyes gleaming with affection and amiability. "Miss Winchester has had a most dreadful experience, I can see. Do tell me what has happened to you, my dear?" He approached, and placed a hand on my dust-caked shoulder. "Crawling through the bones of my ancestors is hardly the most pleasant of activities, I can imagine, but I perceive that you have been crying. You're not one to weep over the mere spoiling of a dress, surely?"

Had I been in my right mind, I would no doubt have detected the insincerity behind the seeming pleasantness of Moriarty's honeyed words. But I was not. I was worn, I was fatigued, I was heartbroken, and I was covered from head to foot in filth from that terrible mausoleum. And here someone was, offering me words of sympathetic concern...I broke.

I burst once again in to frantic tears, and fell sobbing against Moriarty's chest, clutching at his tailcoat like a sick child clutching at a blanket. And he put his long arms around me, and petted me, speaking to me comfortingly, and acting with complete understanding at my disgraceful outburst. When at last the initial hysteria had subsided, and I began to breathe deeply in an effort to stop my tears, Moriarty handed me a black silk handkerchief, and led me gently under the gazebo and through the iron-ribbed door, back to astonishing luxury of the corridors, still with a complete air of warm sympathy.

"Albert, make some jasmine tea for the poor lady," he said, gesturing with his walking stick. "It has been a most trying night for her, and I'm sure it will help soothe her nerves. I'm so sorry, my dear, we have a room all prepared for you, and I'm sure you would like nothing better than to sleep, but I have some most important issues to discuss with you. Indeed, they are even more important now, with the most recent turn of events. Mr. Holmes is looking for you."

The mere reminder of Holmes suddenly sent a heavy feeling of dread dropping in to my stomach, and my shredded nerves screamed as though something had sent a horrible shock through my bones.

"Don't let him find me!" I cried, grabbing Moriarty by his lapels with my dirty, trembling hands. "Please, you were right, I can't stay with him, I don't _want _to stay with him! I don't like what he's doing to me! I'm afraid he'll use me just like he's used Watson and everyone else in his life, and I'll accept it because I'll delude myself in to thinking that he's a good man! Please, don't let him find me..."

Moriarty slowly held up a hand, and waited for me to stop.

"There, there, my dear, I wouldn't dream of giving you back to that monster. But I want to be honest with you, I don't want you to stay with me simply because you feel you have no other choice. Once you're cleaned up, I'll explain my business to you, and you can decide whether you feel right staying with me. If you do not, then I shall give you whatever you need to get away from London and away from Sherlock Holmes, and I shall never bother you again. If, on the other hand, it is your wish to join me...Well, then we have much work to do."

I rubbed some of the irritating tomb dust from my eyelashes, and blinked, sorely at Moriarty.

"Cleaned up?"

Moriarty stretched out a hand, and a mere slip of an ancient old woman came shuffling out of a nearby doorway. She was very petite, with iron grey hair framing her wrinkled, heart-shaped face and watery blue eyes, and a mangled grey shawl draped over her starched, white dress.

"This is Martha," the Professor introduced the old woman as she hesitantly came forward, her face frozen and staring like a rabbit caught in the glare of a hunter's lantern. "She will take you to your room, where you can bathe and find a new dress to wear. Do not worry yourself, my dear, I will not allow Mr. Sherlock Holmes to find you. That is a promise."

I simply watched as he kissed my hand and smiled, kindly, and for the first time, I found myself attempting to smile back at him.

"Thank you, Professor," I said, swallowing my previous tears. I had fallen in to a peaceful state of calm.


	15. Chapter 14

**From the journal of Dr. John Watson:**

**12:15 am**

Highgate West Hill was one of the more classical and quaintly picturesque corners of London, lined with wrought iron fences and well-kept hedges, and with towering structures hailing back to the days of our grandfathers. Indeed, many of its imposing, courtyarded buildings were either the elegantly curved and limestone white homes from the time of King George, or the wooden, sprawling mansions of the Elizabethan period, which looked disturbingly like the archetypal haunted house from a child's storybook. It was not merely a pretty district, but a district which was built to last, and thus the perfect, sturdy location for a bank vault.

I could not fail to spot the looming, grey shape of the Kingsley and Sons International Bank as I approached it around a tree-shrouded bend. If the Elizabethan manors were the gloomy, haunted houses of rumour, then _this _was the forbidden castle of the evil, dark queen from a fairytale. Its huge, granite face bore grinning stone gargoyles, looking down from column perches, beneath a black slate roof. The brass-handled door, with its blood red and emerald green stained-glass panes, did not appear to have been chained or locked in any way, but no light burned in the massive windows, and I wondered if the place would be open at this time of night. However, as if on cue to my thoughts, a small, bespectacled man in a heavy grey coat came out at that very moment, a lighted cigarette in hand, and breathed a long, weary sigh, which sent a jet of greyish smoke streaming in to the night air. For whatever reason (perhaps a premonition of the coming events,) my heart raced as I approached him, clutching the little silver key that was Moriarty's final clue in my pocket.

"Excuse me, my man," I said, tipping my hat, and trying not to sound too anxious as I spoke; "Would you happen to know if there is anyone at the front desk still? I have a rather important...item to retrieve from one of the vaults."

"You're a little late, sir," the thin little gentleman laughed, as he flicked his cigarette on to the ground. "I'm the only one left working at this hour, and I couldn't take you down all the way to the vaults, not without the proper permission."

"Oh."

I could feel the sweat beginning to collect around my collar as I glanced up at the ornate clock face on the front of the building, held in the clutches of those hideous gargoyles. They looked like little demons of Time. How much time did Miss Winchester have, I wondered?...

"Sir, are you _certain _you couldn't do me a favour? It really is an urgent issue, and I made sure to bring the key to save any extra trouble..."

"Key?" The gentleman peered, curiously at the key I presented him with over the top of his round glasses, and his pale, beaky nose. "Oh, I _see_, sir! You want to open one of the safety deposit vaults, not the large vaults below. Well, that's easily managed, provided you have your key. This way, then, I'll just light a few lamps for you, so you don't trip on your way in!"

He smiled a peculiar, crooked smile, and courteously held the door for me as I entered in to a cavernous, green marble hall. The darkness in that cold, echoing place was strangely ethereal and unsettling – like being at the bottom of a lake, almost – and I could not shed the preposterous, imaginary feeling of eyes watching me from the shadows, until a slight snap to my right caught my attention, and a small flame leapt up as my friendly companion lit a match.

"There we are," he said, igniting a small globe oil lamp, which glowed like a warm pinprick in the gigantic darkness. "It's just to your left, sir, vaults 121 to 240. I'll be here if you need anything, I've just got to fetch my portmanteau from my desk, and make sure the night watchmen are doing their rounds. You'll be able to find your vault on your own, I trust?"

I turned, slowly, and stared down the long, silent stretch of narrow space that the fellow indicated, cast more heavily in shadow than the rest of the place, and cordoned off with a velvet rope. I swallowed.

"Yes, yes, that should be fine."

"Very well. Call for me when you're done, sir, and I'll let the night watchmen know they can lock up behind us."

The warm lamp was pressed in to my hand, and I almost started at the sight of the little gentleman's rather gaunt, half-lit face smiling, pleasantly at me over the top of the flame. Then, he shuffled away in to the darkness.

The safety deposit vaults of the Kingsley and Sons International Bank were a large area arranged somewhat like the bookshelves in a library, with metal lockers stacked one on top of the other, about four or five lockers high, and stretching along in rows of thirty. They were only small deposit boxes, intended for hiding away inherited jewellery or old documents, while the mountains of gold sovereigns were kept behind steel and iron doors below; but the more peculiar and the more interesting secret valuables were now towering around me, I knew, as I pulled back the velvet rope, and stepped between rows '1 – 120' and '121 – 240'.

The black, enclosed space between the vaults reminded me horribly of that tomb in Highgate Cemetery, and I found myself glancing up repeatedly at the section of green marble walkway that I could see at either end of the rows, plagued by an irrational fear that I would see a white figure standing there. Turning my attention resolutely to the small, metal vaults that stood around me, I moved the light of my lamp over each hatchway in turn, searching for the right number embossed on their glinting, brass plaques. At last, I found it – No. 221. I took out Moriarty's key, and prepared myself for whatever horror the madman had placed inside, but as I paused momentarily before the vault, the movement of a shadow in the corner of my eye caught my attention. My heart jolted, sickeningly, and I twisted my head round with bulging eyes, expecting to see my nightmares manifested in front of me...Instead, I saw nothing.

Shaking myself, and trying to manage my nerves with scolding thoughts about my childish fears, and how I shouldn't let my imagination get the better of me, I turned back to the vault, and inserted the key in to the lock, hearing the hatch open with a small clank as I turned it. I hesitantly opened the small, heavy door, and raised my lamp, cautiously up to the dense blackness within. The vault contained only one object – A broad, flat, polished box of rich mahogany, with gleaming golden hinges, and a golden coat-of-arms on the lid, featuring a stately raven, perched on a knight's helmet, with a coil of thorns in its beak. As I slowly drew the box out of the vault with one hand, I could feel that it was about the right weight for a wooden box of its quality, so whatever was inside must have been extremely small or of feather-weight.

Anxious to get out of the stifling shadows between the vaults, I called out to my odd little companion, and hurried to the end of the row, where a small, leather-topped table and chair sat. I placed both box and lamp down on the table, and looked about, eager to see the bespectacled man approaching across the dark marble floor, or to hear his footsteps breaking the unsettling silence. I still could not shake that feeling of something lurking in the shadows behind me, but refused to look, as I would not allow such irrational thoughts to take control of me. I had intended to wait for Holmes's promised instructions before examining the clue further, but the adrenalin coursing through my veins due to my uneasiness urged me to do something, and I decided to open the box myself. The villain Moriarty had no doubt prepared something twice as gruesome as the previous clue (a trinket retrieved from the dead hand of his own ancestor,) but whatever it was, I was ready to bear it, for Miss Winchester's sake. I lifted the heavy box lid...And was surprised.

The box was lined with lustrous, scarlet silk, and on top of the silk lay a black and withered rose, its stem snapped in the middle...

"_Look out, Doctor!"_

I whirled around, and was just in time to catch the arm of the bespectacled, grey coated man, looming above my head with a crowbar in hand. I nearly fell back as his white teeth suddenly gnashed at me, his face wild and contorted with insane rage, but in an instant, two filthy arms clamped themselves around the maniac's neck. I looked up in shock to see none other than _Wiggins _seated on the man's back, kneeing him determinedly in the ribs, and throttling him with a vice-like grip. The scrawny boy suddenly bit down, hard on the man's shoulder, causing him to scream and reach back at the lad's tousled hair, as if to yank on it. I grabbed the rogue's collar, and delivered a solid punch to his stomach, bringing him to his knees, and allowing Wiggins to jump down, and grab the box containing the withered flower.

"C'mon, Doctor!" he yelled, making for the door. " 'urry, we 'ave to be quick! Mr. 'olmes said there's not much time!"

Looking back only once at our attacker, who was still lying crumpled on the floor, I raced out of the door with Wiggins, and followed the little street rat as he sped down Highgate West Hill like lightning, so that the Kingsley and Sons International Bank was soon well behind us.

"Wiggins!" I called to him, holding on to my hat as tightly as I was holding on to my sanity. "Wiggins, _stop!_"

I almost flew over the lad as he complied at once, standing, expectantly under a street lamp, and looking up at me with bright eyes in a dirty face.

"S'matter, Dr. Watson?"

I pointed a stern, silent finger at the boy, while I heaved and panted for a few moments, trying to catch my breath.

"Mr. Holmes...Mr. Holmes sent you, didn't he? What's going on? What has he discovered?"

"Oh, 'e didn't _send _me as such, Dr. Watson, I've been 'ere all along. Followin' yer like, ever since yer left my 'ouse down in the docks."

My finger dropped at this fantastic but candidly spoken revelation.

"What?..._What? _Why on earth...?"

"Cos Mr. 'olmes asked me t'. When you turned yer back and wos talkin' to me Dad about Mam's Chickenpox, Mr. 'olmes just whispered t' me t' follow you out an' stay close. Then when you put 'im in that cab, 'e signalled me t' stay wiv you. An' it's bloody well an' good I did, innit, cos that bloke, e'd 'ave 'ad yer brains all over the floor...!"

"Wiggins!" I said, sharply. "_Where _is Holmes? He said I was to await his instructions. Have you got any?"

The boy pulled an object that I recognised as Holmes's pocketbook from his jacket pocket, and presented it to me.

" 'e dropped this out of the cab when he signalled me t' follow you 'ere. e's written somethin' in it. There, where that little marker is."

I opened up the pocketbook, and found a hasty message pencilled in Holmes's handwriting;

'_Watson – If alive, come to Randolph and Simmons Goldsmiths just off of Baker Street. Do not delay. We do not have much time._

_S.H.' _


	16. Chapter 15

**Note from Agatha: HUGE chapter, but it's important!**

* * *

><p><strong>From the reminiscences of Miss Harriett Winchester:<strong>

**12:30 am**

There came a knock at the bathroom door, and I called to Martha that I would only be a few minutes longer. As I stood before the large, golden-framed mirror, absentmindedly running a silver comb through my long, wet hair, I looked about me at the extraordinary bathroom – at the pristine cream walls with their mother-of-pearl sheen, at the pale gold marble floor, and the many potted, white orchids, the roll-top bath on its four clawed, golden feet, the carved marble garlands and cherubs, and the gleaming, golden bathroom fixtures – and pondered on the Professor's generosity. His absolute patience with my previous mistrust and rudeness was something that I was not used to (having only ever experienced harshness and intolerance at the hands of Holmes, and brutality at the hands of Rowena,) and was certainly more than I deserved, considering that I had hit him earlier. I placed the silver comb down on the marble countertop, next to the silver-backed brush and hand mirror, and a long row of rose and lavender scented soaps and oils in beautifully gilded bottles and soap dishes, and merely shook my head. _Why _did he treat me so kindly?

"Are you about done, miss?" Martha's wavering, timid voice called through the bathroom door. "The Professor will be waiting."

"Yes, coming, Martha!"

I turned the crystal doorknob, and then drew in my breath in astonishment at the room that lay without. When I had first entered the bedroom that the Professor had chosen for me, it had been concealed by complete darkness, as Martha had led me directly to the waiting bathroom, where a handful of chamomile-scented candles burned in large, antique lanterns. Now, Martha had just finished lighting the last of the lamps beneath their red velvet coverings, and the entire bedroom was exposed.

The walls were panelled with a sleek, red and black varnished wood – a vivid, beautiful crimson, swirled with dark, smoky veins, giving the effect of being in a cavern of smouldering Red Jasper – and the ceiling bore a magnificent jet, red, and gold mosaic of one of the coiling, Chinese dragons that were so prevalent around the Professor's home. More of those dragons were embroidered on the ruby red satin of the bedspread and curtains on the huge, four poster bed, their fiery vividness contrasting magnificently with the black silk sheets beneath. Elegant black lacework topped the exquisite mahogany dressing table and chest of drawers, which were both just as generously supplied as the bathroom (I spied pots of potpourri, rose-coloured bottles of perfume, ribbons, hairpins and dainty gloves of lace and satin, all carefully wrapped in bundles of tissue paper, beautifully painted black and gold Eastern vases of rich red roses, a silver ewer and washbasin, and even a large, wonderfully crafted ebony music box, painted, by an expert hand it seemed, with blooming red roses on a delicate, winding purple vine, and opened to reveal a little figure of a beautiful, porcelain white dancer, with a tiny black parasol, and a long black gown swirling about her as though she were in mid-twirl.) There was also a large wardrobe, mounted by four gilded lions and eagles, seemingly locked in fierce battle, and a great, black marble fireplace, where a lovely fire burned, cheerily. Some sort of crest or coat-of-arms was carved in gold just under the mantelpiece – A raven, it looked like, seated on a knight's helmet.

But it was not merely the sight of the beautiful bedroom itself that had caused me to gasp. It was something much more astonishing…and more disturbing. Above the wide, black marble mantelpiece, where a vase of pure white roses sat (contrasting strangely with the many other vases of deep red roses around the room,) was a huge, magnificent portrait, taking pride of place on the chimneybreast, and being the focal point of the room. The subject of the portrait was a girl of around my age, perhaps even a year or two younger. She was seated, with an open book in her lap, wearing a dress that seemed to be of a style quite a few decades old, but still a lovely garment all the same – It was a dark maroon in colour (the colour of claret,) adorned on its low, puffed sleeves and on the front of its skirts with coordinating lace and ruffled satin, seemingly gathered in to the shape of roses. I took in the girl's appearance – The features of her face, her high, rounded cheekbones, thin mouth, petite nose, her lightly freckled complexion, her auburn hair…This girl was _me!_

No…No, she wasn't. The similarities were great, but as I looked at her image more intensely, I realised that her eyes were dark brown, whereas mine were hazel. And I fancied that her hair was far redder than my pale russet shade.

"That's the Professor's sister, miss."

I nearly started out of my skin, as I suddenly spotted Martha lurking just behind a tapestried corner of the four poster bed. She shuffled to the middle of the room, looking at me, strangely, and as she moved I saw that she was holding something draped over her arms…A dress. _The _dress. The dress in the portrait.

"His…His sister, Martha?" I said, quietly, looking back at the girl's portrait in awe, and once again momentarily seeing myself there.

"Yes, miss. Rose was her name, Miss Rose Amelia Moriarty. She and the Professor were twins."

"_Twins?_" This seemed even more of a shock to me for some reason. "But, why didn't…Why does…_What happened to her, Martha?_"

The frail old woman looked at me, stunned for a moment, but I knew. I _knew _the moment I had looked at that portrait and learned that it was the Professor's sister that she was no longer living. What I wanted to know was _why_…

"She died, miss, some years ago," Martha said, simply, motioning me over to the dressing table, and pushing me down on to the seat in front of the mirror. "Cruelly, and unfairly, and much before her time. The Professor…" I felt her tug slightly at my hair as she began to run her fingers through it, and feared that she was on the brink of some hysterical outburst; "He's never forgotten it. Never been able to move on."

There was a small, silent pause, before I saw her turn away in the mirror, and move towards the fireplace, where the hair irons were being warmed. I stared, thoughtfully at my reflection. Moriarty's sister…

"Martha?" I said, as the woman returned to the dressing table with a tortoiseshell comb and a stiff hairbrush on a tray, along with the hair irons. "Miss Moriarty…I look like her, don't I?"

"Indeed you do, miss," Martha said, soberly, wrapping a length of my hair around the brush. "I imagine that's why the Professor is so fond of you."

"Does he…Does he blame himself for her death? Does he think that what happened to her was somehow his fault?"

There was no pause from Martha now, as she busied herself working with my hair.

"Partially, miss, partially. But there was someone else he blamed even more. Someone who he accused of ruining his entire family, his mother, his father, his poor, innocent sister…All of them."

My heart missed a beat at Martha's words, but I dared not ask anymore. Half of me thought it imprudent to delve deeper in to this subject behind the Professor's back, but the other half of me was afraid to hear the name of the person the Professor blamed for ruining his family and somehow causing the death of his twin sister. I had my suspicions, but I didn't want to voice them to Martha. I had to talk to the Professor, hear the words from _his _mouth.

After Martha had dried and arranged my hair, I donned the dress of Rose Moriarty, found some appropriate shoes to wear in an ebony trunk at the foot of the bed, and followed the peculiar old woman down the hall, back towards the Professor's study. As we approached, I overheard a heated conversation inside, apparently between the Professor and a mumbling other.

"A child? A _child? _The man you boasted to me was the most successful and highly skilled of anyone in your line of work was defeated by a _child? ABYSMAL! _Our entire operation is beginning to unravel, I can sense it, and I suspect it is because Holmes is executing an invisible hand! He is not as indisposed as we previously thought. No…No, it must be taken care of now. Now, before it is too late! Lord knows why I have been so reluctant to just finish it! Bradshaw, this may be an extremely crude way of going about it, I know, and not nearly as clean and discreet as we had planned, but I want you to go back across to…"

Martha rapped, sharply on the door. A moment later, Albert the butler answered, and gracefully stepped aside to reveal our presence to the Professor and his small gaggle of guests. The Professor's face was dark and grim, but the moment he saw me, no doubt much resembling his lost sister in her maroon dress, his expression broke in to a wide smile.

"My dear! My, you look much better! Come in, have a seat. These gentlemen were just leaving."

His eyes turned, coldly back to the four, scruffy gentlemen standing before him, who all exchanged indignant looks to each other.

"But we want paying!" one of them cried.

"You'll get your money once I _know _the job is actually done! Now, get out! _Now! _He is on our trail, I can feel it!"

My chest tightened at his words, and the four rough-looking men marched, silently out of the room, as directed, though their faces were far from contented with the orders they had been given. The Professor gave a contemptuous snort as Albert closed the door behind them (shutting out Martha in the process. It seemed to me that the butler did this with some force.)

"I should have known better! Sebastian is much more reliable with this sort of thing…" With a calming sigh, the Professor then turned his attention back to me, his eyes once again becoming amiable as he looked me up and down in my dress. "Now then, my dear, would you like some tea? Albert, the tray."

"Were you talking about Holmes?" I said, anxiously, almost colliding with Albert and the silver tea tray as I rushed towards the Professor. "Does he…Does he know where we are? Is he coming to find me?"

"I fear he is perilously close, my dear," the Professor said, gravely, taking my hands. "Indeed, he has greatly surprised me with this new move of his. I thought him quite out of the way and beyond our concern, but it seems his devilish cunning has been working against me all along! I have no idea how near he is to discovering us…and reclaiming you."

True fear crossed his features, but he seemed to fight it away.

"That is why I must have this talk with you now. Come, sit down. Kasim, if you would?"

I started a little as the tall Negro man who had led me back from the cemetery appeared from a shadowy corner near the black and silver fireplace, and courteously drew back a studded black leather armchair for me. I observed him as I sat down, and saw that he was now wearing an exquisitely beaded and embroidered long coat of sorts, made from crimson red satin and glittering with golden thread, with a small cap to match.

"I hope Kasim didn't frighten you earlier?" the Professor said, lightly, as he seated himself in the armchair opposite mine, while Albert set down the tray on the small polished table between us. "I sometimes post him as a guard at the…_alternative _entrance to our base, for when I am expecting trouble."

I gave Kasim a small, nervous smile, which he responded to with a solemn bow. His manner was as quiet and gravely courteous as Feng's. Albert, meanwhile, was bent over the tea tray on the table, going about his work with the many feverish hand flourishes of a musician playing Mozart on the piano. He set up two dainty little silver cups and saucers with their strainers, poured fragrant jasmine tea from the beautifully crafted silver pot, and completed each serving with a teaspoonful of honey from a little silver cauldron. The Professor smiled, pleasantly as I took my cup and indulged in a long, sweet sip.

"And now, my dear, I shall be absolutely frank with you – Nothing embellished or altered, and nothing you wish to know held back...

I expect Mr. Sherlock Holmes has convinced you that I am a criminal mastermind of sorts? Indeed, I would not blame you for believing it, considering the hideous experiences that you have had at the hands of some of my organisation. I know this will never be enough, but I wish to tell you now how _truly _sorry I am that you were caught in the path of a bullet fired by one of my…employees. It was completely unintentional, and I was distraught upon learning that you had been injured."

"But _why?_" I pressed, setting down my cup. "That's what I've never understood, Professor, why have you been so…concerned for me since I arrived in Baker Street?"

"I would have thought that was obvious, my dear," the Professor said, stirring his tea, medatively. "I have already revealed to you the fates of the many people who came in to the personal life of Sherlock Holmes. When we – that is to say, my organisation and I – learned that a young lady had gone to that man for her supposed protection, we were horrified, and felt it a duty to warn you…Or rather, scare you." He smiled, sadly at me as I peered at him over the rim of my cup. "I am sorry, miss, it is simply the way of our organisation. We put our point across with force, rather than with feeble appeasement and the meaningless speeches of today's politicians. It was our wish to see you flee Baker Street and Sherlock Holmes with no intention of returning, and, as I observed from your accompanying him on his investigation in to the death of Mr. Ernest Moore that he was already well under way with forming a bond with you, I felt that drastic action was needed."

"You observed?" I suddenly recalled the day that Holmes had led me back to the Royal Albert Hall to recreate the scene of Ernest Moore's murder. Hadn't there been a darkly dressed man outside, peeling the posters for _'King Lear' _from the walls? I had assumed that he was just a workman…

"That was _you?_"

The Professor chuckled a little.

"I see you noticed me. I had guessed that you were an observant one, hence Holmes's interest in you. After seeing you, I felt desperate to save you from that awful man's clutches, but could not go to you in person without putting myself in danger, so I sent the packages." A mournful, dreamy look came to his dark eyes. "You see, you reminded me so very much of someone…"

"I know," I muttered, feeling the atmosphere in the room change, becoming somewhat solemn and uncomfortable. "The portrait in my room…Martha told me…"

The Professor's eyes had actually begun to glaze over with tears, but at the mention of Martha's name, he suddenly looked up, sharply.

"Martha? What did she tell you, exactly?"

His tone was not defensive, as such – More inquiring, suspicious; so I was still not quite sure if the topic was a welcome one or not.

"She told me about your sister," I began, hesitantly. "About how she died, tragically…How you believed someone was responsible for what happened to her, someone who had hurt your family…"

There was a stony silence in the room. Albert, I noticed, had moved behind the Professor's chair, in a cautionary position. The old, dark, wolf-like look had come back to the Professor's face, a look of gathering anger. But not anger at me, I sensed, for his eyes were looking beyond me. It was remembered anger, brought back at the thought of some long ago humiliation or injustice. The jasmine tea was not enough to quench the dryness of my mouth, and I struggled to find the breath to ask the horrible question that had been brewing in my mind;

"Professor…That person…Was it Holmes?"

Albert and Kasim looked at each other, strangely, but the Professor raised a slow, silencing hand to the both of them.

"Yes," he breathed, in a tone so hushed it was barely audible. "Well, not him directly, you understand, but the bitterness…Oh, my bitterness!"

He launched himself to his feet, slamming down his half empty teacup, and splashing the remaining contents all over the table, before hastily crossing the room, starting up a feverish pace;

"I have fought to let go of my hate over the years. But, seeing this man develop such a similar temperament to his fiendish father, and actually setting himself up as an aid to those in need…! Holmes's father, you see, was a very wealthy entrepreneur – Wealthy, because of his renowned ruthlessness and clinical attitude towards his workers. _Business _came before human regard with him, but it was all perfectly within his rights. He abided by the law. Well, his father and mine were in the same business, you see – The business of rebuilding derelict property for the housing market, and at a time when my father's business was struggling to keep its head above water, Sherrinford Holmes absolutely drowned it. He flung my father up and threw him to the ground, not just ruining him, but utterly crippling him, making careful precautions in his cold, calculating manner so that my father would never be able to challenge his business again.

We were left destitute – worse than destitute! – and when my sister became ill because of the squalid conditions in which we were forced to live, we had no money to treat her. My mother's family would not help us, not even to save the life of their own granddaughter! They were too _ashamed _of the man my mother had chosen to marry. And because of that – because of the callousness, the selfishness, the _legally justified _brutality of Sherlock Holmes's father – I lost my dear twin sister! I felt every ounce of her pain as she died, and it has stayed with me ever since. It has stayed with me as a burning hatred for the family who sent my sister so early to her grave, for the legal system that deemed every tactic that that inhuman devil employed as unquestionable, and perfectly within his rights to do. And now, see what else they have done!"

I started back in my chair as the Professor stormed, angrily over to the stoic figure of Kasim;

"When I attempt to give a better life to Kasim and his fellow kinsman – to bring them in to my household, and the households of other fine and honourable families in this country – it is called slavery. When I attempt to free a desperate young man of a father-in-law who extorts him for money and terrorises his beloved, it is called murder. When I attempt to pry some gold sovereigns from the hands of these rich banks that hold sway over our country, ever building their own empires while ignoring the starving poor that surround them, I am called a thief, a robber. Under what circumstances can these people be considered innocent victims? And if the law is willing to cooperate with such a man as Sherlock Holmes, well…I believe that the wrong people are hailed as heroes in this age, miss, and we are too quick to judge someone as a villain. What right has this corrupted nation to punish those who use its own tactics against it?"

There was a ringing silence. I sat, recoiling back in my chair, half in awe, and half terrified of the Professor's passionate anger. But the heartbreak in his voice wall all too clear, and I felt a crippling sympathy for his loss and for what the world had done to him. After all, hadn't I felt that same fiery anger at a person who I saw as the cause of a great loss of my own? The Professor breathed, deeply, for a few moments, then turned to me.

"Well, my dear, there it is, all lain out before you. I know I must seem hideous and abhorrent to you with Holmes's influence, but I wish to tell you that I am truly very fond of you. If you wish it, I would be delighted for you to come with me, use your obvious intelligence to help me in my business. If you wish to never see me again, then I shall respect you in that wish, and leave you with whatever you need to get by. It is your decision."

I blinked, stupidly, then suddenly realised that I had been called to make up my mind. I glanced, uncertainly from Albert to Kasim, then turned my gaze to the floor in deep thought. But as the silvery clock on the mantelpiece chimed out the hour of two o'clock in the morning, I decided to stop pretending. My decision was clear, surely? I looked up with a determined expression, and opened my mouth to reply…

When suddenly, the sound of an echoing gun shot rang out in the stone cellar above our heads. Professor Moriarty and his two henchmen looked up, startled.

"What on earth was that?"


	17. Chapter 16

**From the journal of Dr. John Watson:**

**1:30 am**

The cabdriver who picked me up at the foot of Highgate West Hill must have regretted his choice of fare the moment we set off, for I was half wild with furious panic, and did not remain in my seat nor stop hollering at him to drive faster for the entire length of our journey. By the time we eventually arrived in Allsop Place (a small street that veered away diagonally at the point where Park Road ended and Baker Street began,) the fellow was so pleased to be rid of me, that he fairly wrenched my money out of my hand, and threw me down on to the cobbles.

"_Nutter!" _a vehement yell echoed back to me, as the cab sped away in to the darkness. I glared, reproachfully after the retreating vehicle, and picked up my hat from where it had fallen as I had stumbled from the cab.

"_Watson!"_

I glanced about, certain I had heard a voice hiss my name. There came a frantic but muffled banging of a fist on wood, and as I continued to look about, perplexed, my eyes at last turned upwards, and caught sight of Holmes leaning out of a small, first floor window, thumping the sill with the side of his fist in order to get my attention. I raised a hand and made to wave at him, but he furiously beckoned me back in to the shadows on the other side of the street, pointing towards Baker Street with his other hand. As I hastily stepped back out of plain sight, I looked across at the familiar, deserted street, now darker than ever as the night wore on in to its deepest hours, and thought that it seemed an age since I had last set eyes on it. Our lodgings were not a great distance away, and as I looked at them through the shadows, I felt sure that something was wrong. Mrs. Hudson, even if she had kept up a late night vigil waiting for our return, as I am sure the dear old lady would have done, would most certainly have gone to bed by now; and yet a dim orange light flickered in one of the sitting room windows. It was not the light of a lamp, either (which excluded the possibility that Mrs. Hudson had left one burning for us,) but the smaller, more feeble light of a solitary candle, casting dancing black shadows on the thick window blind. Also, I could not quite see it clearly from here, as it was half cloaked in shadow due to the difficult angle of the moon, but our front door appeared to me to be strangely lopsided...Almost as if…

"_Here, Watson, here!"_

I turned and looked across the empty Allsop Place, and saw that Holmes had come down from the first floor window, and had appeared in the doorway directly below it – The doorway to_ 'Randolph and Simmons Goldsmiths'._ He crept, cautiously forward in to the strong silver river of moonlight that poured down Allsop Place, his eyes always turned towards Baker Street, and urgently gestured me to run in to the doorway of the shop. I followed his lead, carefully watching for any sign of a presence on Baker Street, before daring to make my move. When I was certain that no one was about, I sprinted across the cobbles, and ducked in to the dark recess of the goldsmith doorway, finding myself squashed nose to nose with Holmes.

"Holmes," I muttered through gritted teeth, after an uncomfortable silence; "I hope you're _sure _that nobody is observing us!"

"Hush up, Watson, we almost have Moriarty by the tail!" Holmes whispered, angrily in response. "I take it that, when you arrived at the destination given in Moriarty's note, you found one of his assassins waiting there for you?"

"Yes, along with young Wiggins..."

"Ha! A predictable move! Though I must say, Watson, had it not been for your ever valuable but always unconscious contributions that so inspire my genius, I might not have seen it coming."

"Holmes, _what is going on?_" I demanded, fighting to keep my voice to a loud, breath-filled whisper. "Why did you have me meet you here? Why did you command Wiggins to follow us all night? Why are we presently watching Baker Street of all places, when you say that you are on the brink of catching Moriarty?"

"Am I to answer all four of your questions at once, Watson, or would you prefer me to answer them in a specific order?" Holmes asked, drolly, and I caught his eyes glimmering in the darkness. "Well, the reason why I had you come here is because it was the turning point of this Great Game, this Dark Maze, this Night of Illusion and Fear. It was Moriarty's one mistake, and it has led me directly to him…But it was all because of you that I perceived the mistake in the first place, my dear fellow. As to why I had Wiggins follow us, that was simply for the reason that I wanted to keep him close…and away from that young Jim Perkins."

"Perkins?"

I thought for a moment, and suddenly remembered the young lad with the wounds on his face, the one who had arrived in the house by the docks to court Wiggins's sister; "What does he have to do with any of this?"

"You recall, Watson, that one of the rogues who took Miss Winchester in that carriage was a slim, young looking fellow, with what seemed to be a weak and timid disposition?..."

"What?" I laughed, as I realised the fantastic and seemingly inexplicable conclusion that Holmes had come to. "Holmes, you never saw the faces of any of Miss Winchester's kidnappers! How can you be so sure that…?"

"I am sure, Watson, because when I went to shake young Perkins's hand back in the home of the Wiggins family, I plucked a hair from his sleeve. It was undoubtedly the long hair of a woman, and was auburn in colour, but could not have belonged to Theresa Wiggins, as it was far too long, and did not match her vivid, coppery shade. It did, however, match Miss Winchester's."

At first, I was inclined to scoff at Holmes's seemingly far-fetched idea, but as I pondered on it, the pieces suddenly began to fall in to place in my mind – The hair, the scratches on the young man's face, his resemblance to one of the kidnappers, his strange reaction upon seeing myself and Holmes in the Wiggins household, the fact that he had mentioned difficult work with a considerable amount of pay…

"Good God, Holmes!"

Suddenly, Holmes seized my arm, and yanked me back even further in to the doorway, pinning me, firmly against the shop door with one hand, while he craned his neck and peered, urgently out in to Baker Street.

"Quiet, Watson!" he hissed back at me, even though I could not make a sound, due to Holmes's palm pressing down on my chest like a stone. "They are coming!"

I could not see a thing from where I was being held so forcefully against the door of the shop, but I deigned from Holmes's sharp intake of breath that something was occurring out near our lodgings.

"Ingenious! I never would have thought…Oh, but he is so clever! Watson, Moriarty's cunning is beyond anything I have ever encountered before! He is the type of adversary I could only ever have dreamed of meeting! Surely, he is nothing more than a cocaine hallucination, invented by the dark depths of my brain?..."

"Holmes!" I finally managed to rasp. "You're…_suffocating _me!"

Holmes's head snapped round, and he removed his hand from my chest, allowing me to breathe again.

"Apologies, Watson, but I have just confirmed my suspicions as to where Moriarty is hiding. Miss Winchester is safe!"

I stared at him, utterly bewildered.

"Confirmed? Just now? But _how, _Holmes? Two hours ago, you were completely clueless!"

I am sure my words would have provoked a very stern and chagrined reaction under regular circumstances, but Holmes was now on the cusp of revealing the elaborate trail of clues and meticulous reasoning process that had led him to the solution of his grand case, and nought could stop him;

"Firstly, Watson, I believe I must answer your final question – Why are we watching Baker Street? That relates to what I learned here, in the business and abode of Mr. Joseph Randolph III, and his father, Joseph Randolph II, whose own father founded the business with his partner, Joshua Simmons. I rather unceremoniously roused father and son from their beds by throwing pebbles at their window, and told them that I was seeking information about an ornament commissioned through their establishment, for which I would pay handsomely. The two would not let me in until I had shown them the product in question – and revealed the amount I was willing to pay – after which they proved much more hospitable."

"And the ornament…It was the raven's skull?" I asked, twisting round to look at the door of the goldsmith. "How did you know it was made here?"

"Because of the hallmark, Watson," Holmes said, as though it were all incredibly obvious, and I really should have known this already. "_'Randolph and Simmons' _always mark their products with a calligraphic R and S, which I found embossed on the inside of the raven's skull. Fortunately, the first Joseph Randolph was a passionate book-keeper, and had preserved on record the name and address of the gentleman who had commissioned the ornament…sixty-two years ago."

My heart plummeted.

"_Sixty-two years ago? _ Holmes, how on earth does that help…?"

"Patience, Watson, patience, I have not yet told you the name of the gentleman who commissioned the ornament. His name was Charles Moriarty."

My mind instantly flashed back to the inscription on one of the plinths inside the abysmal Blackwood family tomb – _'Here lies Mrs. Grace Catherine Helena Moriarty, nee. Blackwood, beloved wife of Charles…'_

"Moriarty's father!" I gasped.

"Exactly, Watson. The gentleman came here sixty-two years ago to commission a jewelled raven's skull as a wedding gift for his fiancée – her family crest being a raven – and became a favourite customer, and also something of a family friend to the Randolph and Simmons families. Mr. Moriarty's son even befriended young Albert Simmons, the son of Mr. Randolph's business partner. However, it seems that the Moriarty's found themselves in desperate financial straits at one point, and Charles Moriarty even sold the raven's head ornament back to Mr. Randolph and Mr. Simmons for scrap gold. Indeed, Joseph Randolph II informed me that both he and his father had believed Simmons had melted the ornament down, though it would appear that he in fact kept it. Mr. Randolph and Mr. Simmons had perceived at this time that Mrs. Moriarty was gravely ill, and thought that the cost of her treatment was maybe the cause of the family's financial difficulties. Sometime later, they heard that Mrs. Moriarty had died, just a single day after Christmas. We, of course, now know where she lies, Watson.

Years passed, and Randolph and Simmons heard progressively less of Charles Moriarty. Eventually, they read of his tragic death in a mocking obituary posted in _'The Times'_, apparently by Mrs. Moriarty's bitter relatives – The gentleman had committed suicide, having never fully recovered from the loss of his beloved wife. His children, both then eleven years of age, went to live, of all places, in China, with their uncle, Lord Francis Blackwood, who it was said loathed England with every cell of his body. His burial here in his native soil, in the Blackwood family tomb, has been thought very strange by many. Some have even considered it an act of spite…Whatever the case may be, Lord Francis was buried in England after his premature and rather mysterious death, and his niece and nephew, now aged eighteen, collected their inheritance, and were never heard from again.

And now we come to the strange part of this tale, Watson. Some seven or eight years after the death of Lord Francis Blackwood, Albert Simmons, the old childhood friend of James Moriarty, was on the cusp of taking over the goldsmithing business from his father, as was Mr. Randolph's son, Joseph Randolph II. All was perfectly normal, until one day, young Simmons received a letter, and began behaving very strangely. He would often go out for secret midnight excursions, and refused to say where he had been or who he had met. His parents believed he had a young lady, but about a month after the arrival of the letter, Albert Simmons vanished without a trace, and never contacted his family again."

"You believe him to be dead, Holmes?" I asked, wondering where this extraordinary tale was going.

"No, Watson, I do not. And neither do our friends the Randolph's. For earlier this evening, Mr. Joseph Randolph III was just closing up shop, when he spotted a strange carriage, driven by a man who strongly resembled an old framed photograph of Mr. Joshua Simmons, which presently hangs on the wall of the shop. The man driving the carriage was wearing a buttoned cloak, and a black bowler hat…"

Before I could cry out at this startling revelation, however, there came a bang from the direction of Baker Street, and Holmes and I thrust our heads out of the shop doorway, to see a group of men hurrying from our front door.

"They have discovered that I am not there," Holmes whispered, his eyes lighting up. "Come, Watson, with me!"

We stuck to the shadows, and slunk along the row of shops and houses on our side of Allsop Place, watching the four dark figures retreating across Baker Street. I was afraid to speak, but my head was still burning with questions.

"Holmes," I muttered, my heart pounding, "those men were in our house. What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"They have already been in our house, Watson," Holmes said, and I looked up, stunned. "You were right when you said that Moriarty wished to keep us away from Baker Street. It was because he was sending those roughians to raid our rooms, and take Miss Winchester's possessions…along with some personal effects of my own…I entered the house before you arrived, and discovered Gladstone cowering under your bed. He led me to where the devils had bound and gagged Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen. Do not worry," he answered to my look of horror, "they had not harmed her beyond some bruises on her neck and wrists. I have sent her to Lestrade."

I followed him as he silently ran across to the corner of Baker Street, still watching the men. Their route confused me greatly, for they seemed to be heading directly for the old, empty house that stood opposite our lodgings. In the corner of my eye, I saw Holmes grin as our watched quarry completely avoided the front door, and instead made their way in to the little, dark alleyway that ran down the side of the empty house.

"But…But…" I could only stammer, dumbfounded. "Holmes, surely…? He can't be…He _can't _be…!"

"He has been here all along, Watson," Holmes muttered, taking my wrist, and quietly leading me towards the empty house at a creeping run; "Here, in the most perfect of hiding places – Right before our very eyes! Mr. Joseph Randolph II told me that Charles Moriarty was in the business of buying and renovating derelict properties, and this house was a project that he abandoned shortly after the death of his wife. You said it yourself, Moriarty was exerting all his efforts to keep us away from home, which also happened to be away from _him, _not towards, as we had imagined. At the end of our wild goose chase, he planned to kill us both, while giving himself plenty of time to get Miss Winchester out of Baker Street."

"Out of Baker Street?" I frowned, as we crouched beside the front steps of the house, peering in to the alleyway, and watching the four frantically arguing men walk down it. "Holmes, do you mean to say that Moriarty is planning to take Miss Winchester away?"

"Indeed, Watson, and I believe he will persuade her to go willingly," Holmes almost seemed to growl, as the men disappeared around the back of the empty house, and he began creeping forwards in to the alley, following in their tracks. "The possessions that he stole from our rooms suggest he wants her to be comfortable. She is not to be his prisoner. He also took the photographs that I had obtained of Miss Winchester's family, the fiend, he obviously wishes to gain her affection…"

"Photographs?" I said, curiously, as we came to the end of the alleyway. "What photographs?"

But Holmes waved me in to silence, and urged me to duck down behind a small carriage that stood tethered just behind the empty house (I instantly recognised it as the carriage that the short, white-haired gentleman Holmes had confronted in Longford Street had been driving; the one that had looked so similar to the carriage that had taken Miss Winchester.) The four hired roughians stood just feet away from us, panicking and arguing amongst themselves.

"What are we goin' to do?" one of them whimpered. " 'e'll never pay us now!"

"_Paying?_" another shrieked. "You're worried about _paying?_ 'e's a manic! 'e'll kill us!"

"Break our necks, and slurp up all the blood…"

"Don't be stupid!" the calmest of the group snapped. "Here's what we'll do…We go in there, and we act casual. No snivelling, no whimpering, no cracking under pressure! We tell the old bloke that Holmes is dead and done with. God knows where he really is…He probably won't be back till morning. The old man won't have a clue. Then, as soon as we're paid and out the door, we run to the police, and tell them some creepy old man in an empty house in Baker Street has kidnapped a girl. Problem solved!"

"You reckon?"

"_Yes_, I reckon! Now knock out that bloody code on the door, and let's get this over with!"

Holmes clutched my arm, meaningfully, and we both leaned forward to listen to the passcode. A distinctive rhythm sounded on the wooden cellar doors that the four men were bunched around, which was answered by a similar knock on the other side. There was then a rattling of locks being unfastened, and one by one, the four men disappeared from view, the last vanishing to the sound of a loud slam. I hastened forward, but Holmes quickly caught me, and pulled me back.

"No," he said, "wait until they are within the lair itself. It cannot simply be the cellar of this old house, there must be a secret entrance down there somewhere. We cannot let them hear our knock, and tell whatever guard is posted on the other side that no one else is expected."

I reluctantly returned to my kneeling position behind the carriage, but as I did so, a thought occurred to me.

"Holmes, Albert Simmons…He _is _the man we met earlier tonight, isn't he, the one who was driving that carriage?"

"Yes, Watson, and he was the one who placed that dreadful hangman's noose in to your pocket."

"But his carriage was empty when you opened it! Miss Winchester…"

"I was ridiculously close, Watson!" Holmes barked, thumping the wheel of the carriage with his palm. "I said that it was possible he and the original three rogues had traded places. In fact, it was the _carriages _that had been switched, not the drivers!"

This last piece of information made absolutely no sense to me, and I told Holmes so.

"It was a pretty little trick, Watson," he said, his smile now one of fierce contempt; "Specially designed to fool me should I successfully start to follow or trace the carriage. Moriarty had two identical carriages involved in the kidnap of Miss Winchester – The first driven by Smith, Perkins, and the one other with the formidable straight left, and the second driven by Simmons. We unfortunately intercepted Simmons's carriage just _before_ he met his three colleagues, and Miss Winchester was transferred. When I left you at the coffee house, I made a search of every possible place where two carriages might park discreetly in the vicinity of Longford Street, and found this – " he produced something from his pocket – "dropped on the cobbles of Osnaburgh Street."

I gasped, as I recognised the glittering object in Holmes's hand as Miss Winchester's hair barrette. Re-pocketing the barrette, Holmes then took out his watch, and nodded, decisively as he looked at its face.

"It is two o'clock, Watson," he said, slowly looking up at the cellar doors that would lead us to Moriarty's lair. "We must go in. Knock out the code on the door. I am ready."

"But Holmes, what about the guard?" I said. "Do you mean to simply barge in to Moriarty's lair unarmed, and – "

But I was silenced as I heard the distinct click of a revolver cocking beneath Holmes's coat, and his eye caught mine.

"The villains did not find _this _when they broke in to our lodgings, Watson," he said.

Still with a strong sense of foreboding, I approached the cellar doors at the base of the house, and rapped out the unusual knock that the hired thugs had used to gain admittance. There was a pause…and then another knock came in reply, followed by the sounds of bolts being drawn back…

Everything went by in a flash. The doors swung open, a face looked out, Holmes pushed past me, then staggered back at the sound of a bloodcurdling battle-cry. He was punched this way and that, before being dragged like a rag-doll in to the dense blackness of the open cellar, the doors slamming shut behind him. I ran to them, and found to my dismay that they were locked…But a moment later, a gunshot sounded from behind the wooden doors, and all was silent.

"Holmes!" I cried, frantically pulling at the doors. "Holmes, can you hear me?"

Locks rattled, and I sighed with utter relief as Holmes threw the doors apart, and looked out at me, dead-eyed and panting.

"Hurry, Watson," he gasped. "The entrance to Moriarty's lair, I have found it…This way!"

"The guard Holmes, what did…?"

"Just _hurry_, Watson! This way!"


End file.
